


It Starts With One

by Discreet



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Entomophobia, Gen, Political
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2019-09-17 07:26:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 46,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16970325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Discreet/pseuds/Discreet
Summary: Skitter goes into politics.





	1. Chapter 1

"If you had a superpower, what would you do?"

The man groaned. A drawn-out noise uttered from the back of his throat. His head lolled to the side, and he would've tipped over and fell were it not for the rope binding him to a chair.

"I'm sure you've thought of it. What it would be like to have powers. What you would do. How you would use it. Who doesn't dream of being powerful?"

Another groan from the man, but this one came more defined, with something of the shape of a question.

"Wha..." The man’s eyes peeled open, and he looked up at the voice.

He flinched at the sight. It was a bug, a giant bug. The figure was half-wreathed in shadow, the room pitch-black save for a single spotlight focused on him, but he could make the shape of their face. Hooked mandibles and bulbous eyes, it was the face of an ant transplanted on a person.

"Or maybe you never had to dream about being powerful," said the ant, uncaring. Its mandibles unmoving as it spoke. "Why would you have to _imagine_ having power, when you were born to it?"

The man blinked blearily. The voice was a woman's. No, younger. A girl's. She was slight, tall for her age, but still young. Only a teenager.

The man finally found his tongue. "Wha… what are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about you." The ant girl leaned in, close enough to see that the mandibles were sharp.

"I… I don't understand, who are you?"

The ant girl shrugged. "No one important. Certainly not like you.”

The man frowned, his irritation giving him the last push to wake. “What do you want?”

The ant girl stared at him. “Phillip Brabeck, Yale graduate, board chairman of Fortress Construction, collector of boats. Net worth, 15.3 billion."

Phillip’s eyes narrowed at the mention of his worth. "So this is about money."

The ant girl shrugged. "Technically."

A kidnapping, then. Phillip inhaled slow. Looking closer, with a rapidly-clearing head, Phillip could see the ant face was just a mask. A well-made mask, with a hard chitinous material close to the real thing, but a mask nonetheless. It was scare tactics and intimidation, but if this was about money, then Phillip could do business.

"How much do you want?" he asked.

"All of it."

Phillip blinked. "What?"

"Well, not _all_ of it, but close. 15.2 billion. I'll allow you to keep the rest."

"You're _joking_."

The ant girl cocked her head to the side. "Does this seem like a joke?"

Phillip shook his head, but not out of disagreement. He simply couldn't believe it. "It's… insane. You can't expect me to give up _everything_ I've worked for."

She laughed in his face. A harsh bark that went off like a gunshot. " _Work_? When have you have ever worked? When was the last time you sweated outside of a golf course?"

Phillip sighed. Tied up or not, it was clear to him, the girl was just a child.

"I'm the board chairman of a major construction company. The decisions I make affect the whole— ”

Phillip stopped mid-sentence as the girl's hand went to his throat. Her hand was just big enough to pinch the sides. With him tied up too tight to even squirm, there was nothing he could do if she squeezed. But she didn't. Just her touch was enough to shut Phillip up.

"You don't do _anything_ ," she whispered, "You don't swing the hammer, you don't operate the crane. You don't oversee production, you don't make inspections. You don't draw up the design, you don't set up the wiring. You don't program the security system, you don't calculate the costs." Her teeth ground together. "You didn't even hire the people who do all that." Her thumb pressed against his chin. "All _you_ did was hire the person who hired everyone else."

Phillip swallowed and any hope of a peaceful deal went down with it. He wasn’t dealing with just some kidnapper. He was dealing with a lunatic. He spoke quietly, as if not to disturb, "I make the decisions…."

The girl pulled her hand away and sighed. "No," she said, resigned, "You don't even do that. You have business consultants."

"Th-they inform the decision, they don't-"

"Forget it. I don't want to hear it."

Phillip closed his mouth and found himself shaking. The rope, the damned rope was so tight. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but the more he tried to move, the more he realized how little he could.

"Phillip," said the ant girl, "Listen to me very closely."

He looked up at her, wide-eyed.

"I'm going to let you go-" Phillip gasped, but the girl went on "-and you're going to go home. You're going to call your lawyer and inform him that you want to sell _everything_. Liquidate all your assets, empty your accounts, sell all your stock. You're going to tell him you want this done by the end of the month."

Phillip's mouth moved, a protest or something, but no sound came out.

"If you have to sell your stock on a schedule or undervalue your mansions then fine, just keep it legal. It doesn’t matter if the total isn’t exactly 15 billion, so long as it’s _everything_.

“Once that’s done, you're going to take all that money and transfer it to a list of accounts that I'll give you later. Like I said before, you can keep a 100 million for yourself, but everything else? It has to go."

Phillip still couldn't speak. It was insane. It was madness. The girl didn't care.

"Now, I'm going to tell you what you are _not_ going to do. You're not going talk to the police or the FBI or the NSA or the PRT. If anyone asks what you’re doing, make something up. Tell them you found God or you grew a conscience, I don’t care. But most importantly," The ant girl leaned forward and her bulbous bug eyes bore down on him until he saw nothing, but a flat matte-black. "You're not going to look for me. You're not going to try and come after me. You're not going to tell _anyone_ about me." She paused, staring at him. "Do you understand?"

Phillip nodded. "Y-yes, I… I understand."

He understood that she was insane and he needed to say whatever he had to to get out of here.

"Hmm," the ant girl leaned back, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "I don't believe you do."

"I do!" Phillip cried. He pulled against the rope as far as he could, pleading, "I do, I understand completely, I'll do whatever you want!"

"No," the girl said, "you won't. Not while you don't know the consequences."

Phillip was about to shout something else, a promise to God, a swearing on his mother's grave, anything to get her to believe him, but before he could do any of that, something caught his eye.

A slither of motion from the shadows and a quiet buzzing that grew more and more, multiplying by the moment until it grew into the thousands, millions.

Bugs.

Of all kinds and sizes, bugs. Ants, centipedes, cockroaches, spiders, maggots and more. They skittered along the floor like a tide, their twisting writhing bodies flooding the room. And in the air, like a solid cloud, were mosquitos, flies, wasps and hornets. They loomed over him, swirling like a tempest until all at once, they fell on him. Blanketed him until all he could see was black and brown static and all he could hear was a deafening buzz.

Phillip screamed. There was no thought or hope behind it. It just a noise he had to make. The bugs were all over him. They were under his clothes, in his hair, crawling over every inch of him.

Phillip opened his mouth to scream again, but before he could draw the breath, a swarm of cockroaches squirmed its way inside. The revulsion was instant, and the choking followed a moment after. It was the taste of every nasty thing he had ever eaten times a thousand, and all of it trying to force its way down his throat. Phillip gagged, convulsed like a man electrocuted, and with great effort, he retched.

Puke came up and forced the cockroaches out. Phillip didn’t care that he had dirtied his own pants, or that his head and lungs burned like a fire. Phillip was just glad the bugs were out of him. And as if they finally understood how he felt, the bugs began to retreat. The swarm of cockroaches and all the other nasty creatures, crawled off him and away.

But not entirely. Phillip watched as the bugs collected around a figure. The girl. She stood just a few feet away, perfectly calm as the bugs gathered at her feet, spiraling around her.

"My superpower," the girl explained. She stepped forward and the bugs parted for her feet to fall cleanly. "I control bugs, from the smallest flea to the deadliest spider." She held out a hand and opened it. There was a spider on her palm, it was pitch-black with a splotch of red on its back.

"A black widow," the girl explained. She extended her hand and Phillip tried to pull away, but there was nowhere for him to go. Phillip flinched as she touched his chest and he flinched even harder when the spider made the jump. He held his breath and watched with wide eyes and the spider clambered up his body, up to his neck, one spindly leg moving after another. It stopped, just as it was poised over the vein of his throat.

"All it takes is one bite and…" the girl trailed off, "Well, I don't have to explain that, do I?"

"No," Phillip wheezed, still too terrified to breathe. "Please."

The girl waved her hand and the spider hopped down and Phillip heaved with a huge breath.

"Bugs are everywhere, Phillip. All those little creatures that you never noticed," a fly zipped in between them, "I control them. I see through them and I hear through them. So if you think you can run away or turn against me…" the fly settled on Phillip's nose and when he jerked back, flew off. "I'll know the instant you try."

"Okay," Phillip whispered, "I get it, please. I'll do whatever you say. I swear." And this time he meant it.

"Good," said the girl. She took a step back and stared at him, appraising him like a lump of meat.

Was there going to be another test? Another show of force? Phillip wilted under her eyes. The swarm of bugs crawling over him was still fresh in his mind. Even the taste of cockroach lingered in the back of his throat.

Phillip shuddered and bent his head. What had he done to deserve this? Why was this happening? Why?

"Why?" he sobbed.

Phillip jerked up as he realized he had spoken aloud. His eyes darted fearfully to the corners, where the shadows clung to, where the swarm would emerge, but nothing came.

Only the girl stood before him. "Why?" she repeated, "You want to know why this is happening to you, Phillip?"

He didn't answer. He didn't dare open his mouth.

"Because the world is ending and no one is doing anything about it."

Oh god, she was insane.

"You've heard about it, right? The way we live now, it just isn't sustainable. Maybe things will be fine for another generation or two, but year by year, we feel the effects more and more. Venice, Miami, Rio de Janeiro and a dozen other places are already hurting. Eventually, there'll be a breaking point. The world won't be able to hold up the weight, it'll collapse entirely."

Phillip looked away. It was a theory he had heard before. It was nonsense.

"It's a slow, gradual end,” said the girl, “but an end all the same. And what are people in charge doing about it? Nothing. Or not enough for it to matter. They make promises, they make alliances, and they say a lot of pretty words, but in terms of action… nothing that can make a difference.

"But why don't they do something? It's not like they don't recognize the threat. Scientists all over the world agree that if we don't do something drastic and fast, then everyone is doomed. And yet _still_. Nothing. Changes.

"Why?” asked the girl, “Why won't they do something about it?"

Her hand went under Phillip's chin and raised it up.

"Why won't they do anything?"

There was nothing Phillip could say.

"Tell. Me. Why."

"I don't know," breathed Phillip.

"Liar." But the girl didn't strike him, didn't strangle him or call on her swarm. She pulled her hand away and simply glared. "It's because people like you are in charge and you’re too busy protecting yourself to save the world.

"If you and all your powerful friends actually set your resources to saving the world, then it'd be done. Apocalypse averted. But doing so is unthinkable because if you did… _you would lose money._

"Curbing corporate waste, reducing emissions, taxing excess, all of it would harm your profit line. So... nothing happens.” The girl sighed. “Meanwhile, we march on to the end of all life as if it’ll just be fine."

"We…" Phillip licked his lips, her words had touched a nerve, enough to make him speak. "We have to make money… we have a responsibility to our shareholders, our employees… to the economy."

The girl looked at him and he flinched, but still no blow came.

"Economy. You say it like it's a holy word,” she sneered. “What good is an economy if we're all dead?"

Phillip sputtered for a moment. How could he argue with a fanatic? "P-people have to make money. That's… that's reality."

"That's true," she conceded, "For most people. Not you. You don't have to worry about making money. Tell me, what do you do with it all?"

"I… I invest it!" Phillip blurted out, his voice tinged with desperation. "I don't have a pit of gold that I just swim in! I invest in other companies! I buy real estate! I fuel the economy! I- I-"

"What do you invest in?"

"A-all sorts of things," stammered Phillip, wracking his brain for anything, "Real estate! Resources… Uh, hotels! Phone apps, news networks, sports teams. I-I do everything."

"Yes, yes," the girl nodded, "And what do you do to stop the end of the world?"

"Wh-what? You can't expect me to…"

"Why not? Why can't I expect you to do something about it? Instead of buying another basketball team, why not put that money into saving the world?"

"Ah… well…"

"Instead of buying a mansion or going to a resort in Fiji or getting a gold glazed donut or buying another fucking yacht!"

Phillip wilted, cowering before the girl’s fury, but she didn’t stop

"If you have money, by all means, _enjoy yourself_ , invest in what you want, go ahead and make more money, but there is a point where it is _just too fucking much_.

"You have 15 _billion_ dollars. You're far past the point of needing money to survive or be happy. And yet you want more, and yet you only think of yourself. You have the power to change the world, to save people's lives, you have the power to make a difference and what do you do with it?

"You buy _yachts_."

The girl was in Phillip's face now. He had pulled as far back as he could, but she pressed forth until their foreheads touched. Her breath came in hot and heavy.

A moment passed, her practically growling, Phillip holding his breath, waiting for the swarm of bugs to devour him. But his death didn't come. Instead the girl pulled back and when she spoke, her voice was restrained.

"I have a super power," said the girl. "What I choose to do with it determines whether people live or die. I can do some good, save people, stop the end of the world. Or, I can do nothing with it. I could ignore the people's cry for help or pretend the end of the world isn't happening and just… play around, use my power to make myself a queen. But if I did that," the girl looked at Phillip, "that would be _evil_."

Phillip swallowed and found his mouth dry.

"At a certain point, money becomes a super power. 15 billion dollars. How many people do you think you could save with that much money?"

Phillip's mouth closed, then opened. "I… I can try. If… if that's what you want, I can try."

The girl laughed. "No. You had your chance."

"I-" Phillip's reply was cut off as a bag went over his head. He felt a sting in the side of his neck and the world started to turn black.

"You don't deserve power.”.

\---

Phillip woke to the rush of traffic. He jerked awake, started to get up and slipped back onto his arse. He was in a ditch by a highway.

It was morning and the road was thick with cars, honking and beeping. Rush hour.

Phillip ran a shaking hand through his hair. He was still in one piece. Still alive.

Had it all been a dream? A nightmare after a night of drinking too much?

Phillip reached into his pocket and found his phone. He needed to get out of here. To get back home, get some food, get a drink, find a woman. Get a taste of pleasure after that horrendous nightmare.

He started to dial his butler when he noticed something on his hand.

A spider.

He jerked the hand away and the spider flew off into the grass.

But a tingle went up his spine up to his neck. A familiar sensation.

Phillip froze, and glanced down. Sure enough, there was a spider poised over his throat.

The spider held itself there for a long time. And then just when Phillip thought he was dead, the spider began to crawl down. Not off him, but down his arm, to the hand that held the phone.

The spider stretched a spindly leg and tapped on the screen. The phone wouldn't register it, but Phillip could see what it was pointing at. A memo.

Swallowing, barely hiding his trembling, Phillip moved his thumb and opened the memo.

There was no text, only a string of numbers.

Bank accounts.

The spider turned to look at him. Expectant. Waiting.

Phillip felt another tingle at the back of his neck. Another spider.

It wasn't a dream, then. Phillip really was going to lose everything. With a shaking hand, he started to dial his lawyer.

It wasn’t a dream, but a nightmare come to life. A person trying to save the world.


	2. Chapter 2

**July 14**

"What do you think?" asked Miller.

His partner, Davidson shrugged. "A mental breakdown, probably."

“Yeah? I was thinking drug trip gone bad.”

“Could be.”

"Or," Feldman chimed in, "maybe he really did have a change of heart."

Miller and Davidson, turned in unison to glance back at Feldman. The two men were color swapped versions of the other. The same business suit, the same square-shouldered build, and close-cropped hair. Choose your FBI agent, black or white.

"Maybe," Miller said, frowning.

"It's possible," added Davidson in a tone that said it wasn't.

The senior agents turned back to look into the interrogation room as if Feldman had never said anything at all. Across the one-way mirror, stuck sitting in a concrete room was a mess of a man.

An interrogation room was never flattering. The bare cell-like walls and the utilitarian metal furniture all made for a poor atmosphere. And the light above, harsh and focused, could make anyone under it sweat and highlight every wrinkle and line in their face. Not a good look to have.

Not that Phillip Brabeck needed the help. The former billionaire looked as if he had been drained dry, ashen-faced, shadows in his cheeks and dark rings around his eyes. He looked a far cry from the beaming businessman that had once been on the cover of Forbes as "The Construction King."

"Y'know what," Davidson said, "It's probably both. Drugs and a breakdown."

"Hm," Miller replied, "Yeah, probably."

The two agents stared at Brabeck, considering him.

The man was near catatonic, staring off into nothing, motionless except for one thing. Every few minutes, his lips would tremble, a miniscule whisper directed at no one, too quiet for the agents to hear.

"What do you think he's saying?" asked Miller.

"Who knows," said Davidson.

Feldman coughed. "Ahem, actually I think he's trying to say 'please, understand.'"

Davidson shot Feldman an accusatory glare. "And how do you know that?"

"I can read lips," Feldman said with a polite smile, "But of course it's hard to tell for sure when he's just muttering like that."

Davidson frowned and took a step into Feldman's space. He stood a head taller than Feldman and glowered down at him. Feldman supposed it should have been intimidating, but the thing about being short was that eventually you got used to the bravado that others lorded over you.

"Listen," Davidson growled, " I don't know what a PRT flunkie like you is doing here, but frankly I don't care." His eyes narrowed. "Just stay out of our way. This is FBI business, got it?"

Feldman held up his hands in mock surrender. "I'll stay out of your way. Promise."

Davidson didn't look convinced. He lingered for a moment longer, puffing chest and flaring his nostrils before he turned away with a huff.

"We're starting the interrogation," Davidson said in the sort of tone that made it clear Feldman wasn't invited.

Miller followed his partner out, bumping Feldman on the way.

Feldman watched them go, hands still up. Was it sad that he was used to this sort of thing? He was no stranger to inter-department posturing, but no one got it worse than the Paranormal Research Team.

It used to bother Feldman back when he was a fresh recruit, the snide remarks, the snubs, the none-too-subtle insults. The common misconception was that the PRT was an antique of simpler times back when things like werewolves and witches seemed more plausible. Everyone thought they were a department of crackpots chasing after ghost stories. But really, it was just the opposite. Rather than looking for fairy tales, the PRT's job was to _disprove_ them, to make sense of the impossible or the unreasonable and then once things were cleared up, file the case under the correct jurisdiction for another department to handle.

It was, like many jobs in government, a vital, but thankless task.

So although agent Miller and Davidson were as rude as they came, Feldman tried not to hold it against them. Some people just couldn’t help being idiots.

The interrogation door swung open and the agents Miller and Davidson sauntered in with the confidence that only came from a badge. Miller took the seat across from Phillip Brabeck while Davidson stood off to the side, leaning on the wall with crossed arms and a cold expression.

"Phillip." Miller spoke quietly in a calm tone. "Are you ready to talk?"

Phillip didn't react. Just kept on staring into space.

"Okay, silent treatment," said Miller, "I get it. But maybe this'll catch your interest." Miller kept a close eye on the man as he pulled out a manila folder and opened it.

Phillip didn't react.

An impressive show of self-control to not look or maybe it was just the first sign to an impending coma. Either way, Miller picked up the sheet of paper housed within and began to read off of it.

“Floral Essence. Cayman Spa Specialities. Worldway Canals.” Miller sniffed. “Any of those companies ring any bells?”

Phillip’s lips moved, soundlessly. “ _Insane. I tried my best._ ”

“No?” Miller said, not picking up on Phillip’s rambling. “How about the private accounts of a Linda Hershel. Or John Eustace. Or, and this one’s my favorite, Gustav Gustav.”

“ _Please understand._ ”

“Well,” Miller made a show of sighing, “if you don’t want to say it, I will.” He tapped his finger against the paper. “They’re your offshore accounts.”

Phillip's head jerked round to Miller and his stare was suddenly focused.

"What?" Phillip said, his voice hoarse, but audible.

Miller smiled. It was hard not to when you got a reaction like that in the interrogation room.

“What? Did you think no one was going to notice when you announced you’re selling billions of dollars worth of stock?”

“For _charity_ ,” Davidson said from the corner, chuckling.

“We had our eye on you the whole time,” Miller said, “And the instant you started transfering money, we followed it.”

Davidson laughed again, shaking his head.

"You really should have left it to your accountant to handle the money,” Miller said, “You had a nice little nest egg spread out over the usual destinations. Cayman Islands, Panama, Switzerland, you know, the usual. All said, just under a billion dollars, completely untaxed. We wouldn't have found it if you hadn’t made all those big money moves this past few weeks."

The taunt fell on deaf ears. Phillip reached out with a shaky hand for the papers and Miller let him take them.

"It can't be..." Phillip whispered, but his face said otherwise.

"Oh, it is," Davidson said, coming over to the table. He leaned forward bearing a sadistic grin. "Your accountant turned himself in when he realized what you did. He was very eager to tell us as much as he could. A warrant for tax evasion and fraud will do that to a man."

Phillip stared at the paper, his lip trembling and his voice came out in a breath. "She played me. She— " Phillip flinched, his eyes grew wide as dinner plates and he froze, every muscles tensing at once.

Miller didn't quite hear and he tilted his head. "What was that?"

Davidson laughed again. "Are you realizing how screwed you are?"

Phillip didn't seem to hear. Through clenched teeth, he began to hiss. "I didn't mean to do it. It was a mistake. Please, please, please."

This time the agents heard Phillip’s mad rambling. Miller and Davidson glanced at once another and shared a smile. Phillip had practically confessed just now. Miller and Davidson had just cracked the biggest tax fraud case ever in record time.

"Well," Miller said, collecting his folder and barely containing his grin, "I think that'll be all for now. We'll be back later."

The two agents ducked out of the interrogation room, smiling and congratulating themselves before the door was even closed.

They didn't spare Phillip Brabeck a second look. And why should they? The former billionaire seemed stuck in a loop. He was rigid as a rock, stuck to his chair, his lips moving a mile a minute. More crazed muttering, but he had settled on a singular message. It was too quiet to hear, but Feldman could read his lips.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, again and again.

Behind the one-way glass, Feldman considered the words. He had been content to watch the FBI do their work. A bog-standard interrogation if he had ever seen one, but he couldn’t argue with the results.

Still, there were some… peculiarities about Phillip’s supposed confession. It was Feldman’s burden, he could never just let the easy open-and-shut cases be. Through his near catatonic showing, Phillip had two moments of raw emotion. The first, when confronted with his illicit accounts. (Which was an oddity all to itself. Why would a billionaire actually know the exact accounts of his offshore assets? As Miller said, that was a task best left to the accountants.)

And the second moment was just after Phillip Brabeck said the word “she.” He had frozen, went back into his catatonia as if he had seen a ghost.

Two hiccups. Minor in the grand scheme of things. Inconsequential, anyone else would say.

But Feldman had an eye for details and more than anything, he trusted his gut. He took a deep breath in and pulled out his notepad. It seemed he wasn’t going to be done with this case just yet. On the pad, he wrote:

_Possible Paranormal Situation_

Possible. Because even though the PRT was nothing more than government-funded mythbusters most of the time, sometimes, the one in a millionth time, the myth was real.

And the only department that could handle that was the PRT.


	3. Chapter 3

**July 21**

The girl had a power. A simple one and ordinary, but that was what made it so powerful.

The girl was plain to look at. Unremarkable in an undefinable way. Neither so pretty as to turn heads, nor so ugly as to gawk at. A face that would get lost in the crowd, the comfortable standard for the majority.

The girl waited at the bus stop, head bent, eyes low. She wasn't dressed fashionably, but not so out of touch as to be mistaken for a vagrant. Well-fitted jeans and a dark-green sweater that seemed to say "I'm not feeling well." Just another teenage girl on an off day.

Traffic moved past the girl until finally the bus arrived. She boarded, dropping change with a clink-clink into the receptacle. No one gave her a second look as she found a seat in the back.

To be just a face, to be seen but never remembered, it was a power, but not one that just landed in the girl's lap, at least not entirely. This power had specific skills to hone. The girl had to find the right balance between tired and sour for her expression, she had to train her voice so it bore no distinction, neither too high or too low. The girl had to learn to find the flow of a crowd and, more importantly, how to navigate through it without going against the tide.

These were important skills to learn because although the girl looked the part - just a girl, thoughtless, voiceless, inconsequential - she was not.

The bus rumbled through the city streets, starting and stopping in lurches, desperately trying to keep up with the changing lights. The bus was old. Everything in this city was old. Even the "new" things were old, state-of-the-art machines forced through so many backroom deals, reneged promises and cut corners that by the time they reached the streets they were already a decade behind.

There was supposed to be a bus schedule, but the times were more like lofty goals. It was fortunate then that the girl had made her plans with time to spare. Though the girl knew just how important every second was, she could set aside a few minutes for bad traffic and a failing public transportation system.

On the last stop to go the girl took out a pair of earphones and put them in. There was no music to be heard. The deafness just helped her focus on the senses that really mattered.

The bus stopped and the girl got off. There was still a sizable walk. Her destination was a high-rise building put some distance away from the bus stop. Newly built with glossy glass windows and all the amenities one could ever need. Pool, spa and gym all included, which was to say nothing of the condos themselves. These were the homes of the financial lifeblood of the city. The brokers, the hedge fund managers, and venture capitalists. The residents of the condominium handled billions of dollars everyday, and their homes had been made to match.

The girl made her way to the condominium, but walked past the lobby. The doormen, a pair, one just by the door and the other at a desk by the elevator, didn’t even look up at the girl.

The building had another entrance, one that the staff used for such things as throwing trash out. While there weren't any watchful doormen here, there was a camera just above the door.

The girl didn't miss a step. She walked underneath the camera's gaze just as a moth landed on the lens. A second's worth of distraction and the girl had her hand on the handle.

The door should have been locked, but it opened without a hitch. In the door jamb, a gob of spider web had kept the door from fully closing.

The girl stepped inside and closed the door behind. There was another camera here, but it too was covered. Down in the building’s basement, a frustrated security guard was stuck admiring the finer details of a moth's wings.

He wouldn't stand for it forever, though. The girl navigated past a pile of black trash bags to another door. This one was newer with an electric lock that required both keycard and a 6-digit code.

It might have been a problem for anyone else. But for the girl, it was worth hardly more than a second. A keycard slid under the door, pushed by a beetle. The girl picked the card up and slotted it in. Static green letters flashed on the terminal, _ENTER CODE_.

The girl obliged the screen. 042938. Numbers a fly had watched the security guard enter only a few hours earlier.

The door clicked open and the girl was in.

Still only in the service halls, not meant for residents, but there were fewer cameras here. The girl wasn't on such a strict time limit. She needed now, only to be careful.

She dropped the keycard into a waiting pile of cockroaches. They would take the card back to its owner, the security guard in the camera room and he would be none the wiser.

The girl set off again, taking care with her footsteps so that they didn't click against the linoleum floor. Ahead, was the staff break room and with a spot of misfortune, a janitor was having an early lunch, sitting down facing the open door.

Though the girl could have likely played herself off as a lost daughter, she preferred not to be seen at all.

A fly zipped past the janitor's ear and he flinched from the buzz of it. He turned with a scowl on his face, and in that moment, the girl crossed the threshold.

She walked past the elevators and instead went to the stairs. Funnily enough, this would be the hardest part of the excursion. Thirty flights of stairs was no joke.

No one really took the stairs in this building, much less at this time of the day. In fact, most of the residents were at work, speculating, dealing, investing.

It was an uneventful if tiring trip to the penthouse suite and breaking in was no more noteworthy. A spare key pushed under the door and a code entered to disable the home security system. The girl was in.

The penthouse suite was spacious and sparsely decorated. It had a minimalist decor with low-seat couches and contrasting flat colors. The most lively thing in the condo was a grand piano on a raised dais, but a quick inspection revealed a film of dust over the top.

Whether the instrument's owner had lost his passion, had no more time for it or had only ever kept it for aesthetics, the girl didn't know. It didn't matter.

She settled down on the couch and closed her eyes. Her target wouldn't be home for several more hours. In the meantime, the girl would rest.

\---

His name was Dan Hutchen. He was a hedge fund manager. The best in the "biz" or so they said. Give him your life savings and he'll double it within a decade. Dan the Man. Hutch the Clutch. He knows how to have a good time, and he'll make sure you do, too.

Dan Hutchen of Hutchen's Capital with 4,000 clients and managing more than 60 billion dollars. Dan Hutchen always with a grin on his face, he shook hands, cracked jokes, and held big parties for all his clients. He knew just what people with money liked to see. Confidence. Endless, boundless, completely fearless confidence. The stock market is going up, he would say, up, up, up and if it's not going up, I'll make it go up!

Don't believe him? Look at the quarterly report! Your portfolio’s on a 6% gain in only a few months! Isn't it about time you put in the rest of your savings?

Oh, how does Dan the Man do it? Sorry, he can't say, that'd be giving away the secret.

Dan Hutchen just always knew the perfect time to buy and sell. It was a gift, what could he say. Maybe even a curse, he couldn't help knowing these things, he just did. But let him use it for your benefit. Let Dan make you some money.

But take a closer look at the money and you would see: the money went in, but never moved. The reports would go out, the numbers always going up. More money would be put in, and not a drop of it would be invested anywhere at all. The only time the money went anywhere was when someone wanted to pull out and close their portfolio.

Hutchen would work his magic best he could to dissuade them, but if they were really persistent, if they had fulfilled all their contractual obligations, and if he couldn't find anymore excuses, he would have to give them their money lest the secret got out.

The secret being that the numbers on those quarterly reports were just numbers. The secret being that Dan Hutchen wasn't some stock market savant or prodigy, but a con artist. And what an artist he was.

In truth, Dan Hutchen only had enough money to cover maybe a tenth of them. The rest was in the ether.

So how does one get away with conning billions of dollars from so-called “savvy” businessmen? Well, that was easy. Dan Hutchen looked the part and he told them what they wanted to hear. The saps loved it. Why would they doubt it? After all, they were making money!

The real hard part was keeping track of who had what imaginary number.

Such was Dan Hutchen's secret. For forty years, he told no one. Not his family or friends. No one at all.

And yet still, the girl found out the truth.

\---

Dan Hutchen - handsome, tanned, and with an easy smile - was tied to the chair, a rag stuffed in his mouth. His eyes were wide, tearing at the corners and he screamed into his rag, but to no avail.

There was no need for debate here. Dan Hutchen, like the others the girl had visited, was a coward. He had lived his whole life serving only his own interests without even a hint of a moral code. There was no virtue he held so dearly as to die for it. Dan Hutchen only cared for himself and that was what made him so easy to manipulate.

It only took fifteen seconds for Dan Hutchen to break.

“A-anything,” he gasped, “I’ll do anything you say.”

There was no satisfaction to be had, nor any need for anger. Now that the plan was moving forward, the girl couldn't afford any mistakes, but more than that: Justice ought to be cold.

The girl told Dan Hutchen what he was to do.

\---

**July 22**

“-another shocking turn of events for Wall Street as top broker Dan Hutchen confesses to $60 billion fraud. He-”

“-former chairman of the Nasdaq Stock Market and leader in Wall Street trading, Dan Hutchen was arrested just this afternoon after confessing-”

“-the con which lasted upwards of 40 years is said to have affected thousands-”

“-ask how could it have lasted this long? Tonight, we’ll check in with market experts how exactly Dan Hutchen pulled off what could be the scandal of the decade-”

“-only a few days after Philip Brabeck’s landmark tax fraud case, which until now looked to be the biggest fraud case of all time. How exactly these revelations will affect the larger market remains to be seen when the trading floor opens tomorrow morning, but experts agree, the outlook isn’t goo-”

Feldman clicked the television off and leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head. He couldn’t reach very far before his hands bumped against a filing cabinet.

“Office” would have been generous for Feldman’s little space. “Refurbished closet” was probably more accurate. Although that have might been too kind as well, a closet might have at least been neat. As it was, Feldman’s office was packed to the brim. Half the room was devoted to a row of filing cabinets, stuffed to the seams until scraps stuck out the cracks and laden with even more papers stacked atop. The other half of the room was reserved for Feldman’s desk which was only three-quarters covered in papers rather than fully. What was left of the desk was occupied by a half-eaten pita wrap, a stack of unorthodox Rubik’s cubes, and a miniature antenna television.

Here was where the magic happened, so to speak. Feldman picked up Philip Brabeck’s case file for the thousandth time and sighed. It was just Feldman’s luck that the moment he thought he landed a major case, another bigger case came and overshadowed everything else.

Brabeck’s case was still a puzzle worth figuring out, but now everyone’s attention would be on Hutchen and though Feldman didn’t really care for the limelight, he was hoping that maybe Brabeck’s case would be _the one_. The case that would remind everyone why the PRT was necessary, the case that would make it clear just how real the paranormal really was.

Of course, Feldman had to actually _figure_ out the case before there was any hope of that. He set Brabeck’s file down and let out another sigh. As it was, Feldman had hit a dead end. He had detailed Brabeck’s entire year and found nothing conclusive. No trips to haunted houses, no purchases of cursed items, not even any Indian burial grounds desecrated and the man was the chairman of a construction company for crying out loud.

There was only one discrepancy in Brabeck’s case, and that was in the week before his arrest. Brabeck had held an extravagant party - not something unusual for Brabeck, but along the way he had somehow ended up on the side of the highway eight hours later, a changed man.

And that was all Feldman knew. Trying to wring the details out of Brabeck’s associates had been like trying to talk twenty lawyers at once - which was exactly what had happened. Brabeck was radioactive, and everyone at the party seemed to be citing a case of Brabeck-exclusive amnesia.

It was frustrating to say the least, but what could Feldman do? He picked up his half-eaten lunch and took a miserable bite.

Before Feldman could wallow too deeply, he heard an unfamiliar sound. A knock at the door.

Feldman jerked in his chair, and turned to look at the door, mouth half-open. Who the hell could that be? There were only fifty people at the PRT, and even less than that who would ever care to knock at Feldman’s door. A bit of food started to fall out before Feldman shut his trap and forced himself to swallow. He choked and coughed, but through pained gasps he managed to say, “C-come in!”

The door opened and in walked a man and woman. The first was Feldman’s boss. The PRT director Armstrong, a former military man, though he looked more suitable as a Macy’s Santa Claus. He could keep up a friendly smile even as he cut the expense budget _again_.

“Feldman!” Armstrong cried, beaming. “I see you’ve been doing well.” He approached Feldman with his hand held out.

Feldman got to his feet, squeezed out of his desk and shook his boss’s hand. “I-uh, I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Oh, really?” Armstrong gave Feldman’s hand a good tug up-and-down, still smiling. “You didn’t get my email? Well, no worries. We’re here now.”

“Uh…”

“So how’s the Brabeck case coming along?”

Feldman winced. “It’s…”

“Yes?”

“There’s some difficulties… None of the witnesses are cooperating.” Feldman frowned, and a scrap of frustration grew into courage. “Did you see my request for those warrants?”

Director Armstrong smiled. “I have! And you’ll get them!”

“Sir, I really need— wait… you’ll get them?”

Armstrong chuckled and patted Feldman on the shoulder. “Don’t act so surprised, Feldman. Even I can pull my weight sometimes! You’re my top agent, and this is a big case you have on your hands. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you solve it.”

“Oh, um. Thank you sir.”

“Don’t mention it. And speaking of helping out, I think it’s about time you got a partner, don’t you?”

Feldman stared at Director Armstrong. He had never in his entire time at the PRT heard of anyone getting a partner. “What?”

Armstrong stepped aside and waved a hand. “Look, here she is.”

The woman stepped forward. Feldman was already short, but the woman towered above him. She was a little under six feet and fit. She was dark-skinned with long flowing black hair, and a sharp jawline. She was, in a word, striking. Wearing a business jacket and skirt, she didn’t look so much like a government agent as a high-powered executive. She had a slight smile, polite, but amused. At what, Feldman didn’t know.

She held out a hand for him to shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about the famous Walter Feldman.”

Feldman pursed his lips as he took her hand. He didn’t know what to make of his so-called fame, so he didn’t make anything of it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Miss uh...”

“Andrea,” the woman said, still with that amused smile. Her handshake was firm and precise.

Feldman’s brow furrowed. Now that he had a good look at her, there was something familiar about the woman.

Armstrong spoke up, “Andrea here, is one of the PRT’s best agents. Not as good as you, of course.”

“Really, now?” Feldman eyes’ narrowed. There was still something familiar about the woman, but with a department as small as the PRT, Feldman was sure he would’ve noticed a woman like her.

“You might’ve missed her,” Armstrong added, “She’s been on loan to some other departments.”

“Which ones?”

“Sorry,” Andrea said with a faint smile, “That’s classified.”

Feldman glanced over at Armstrong, but the old man had the sort of smile that brooked no approach. It seemed Feldman didn’t have much choice in the matter. He held back a sigh. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately.

“Well,” Feldman said, composing himself, “I look forward to working with you, Andrea.”

“Please,” she said, “Call me Alex.”


	4. Chapter 4

**July 25**

Newscasters were the people who had seen and heard it all. Every scandal, murder and tragedy read with cool, calm precision. Maybe there'd be some emotion injected into an especially sad story, a furrowed brow, a slight pause, but in the end, it didn't really matter to them. They’d move right on to the next story.

Tonight, though, the newscaster looked tired. Too tired for the makeup to cover the eyebags and wrinkles. She looked into the camera and there was redness in her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was raspy and cracked.

"The Dow Jones fell 4,000 points today. Nasdaq and the S&P are... bad"—the caster grimaced and pushed on—"The massive drop-off occurred immediately after the news broke of Fredrik Lindh's confession to corporate fraud. This makes for the third major financial scandal in as many weeks. Fredrik Lindh is the CEO of Kronon, a company which now stands accused of failing to report a number of large debts on their balance sheets.

"The exact amount is currently unknown, but early reports are quoting numbers as high as fifteen billion. How this..." the caster's voice cracked and she swallowed hard, "how badly this will affect the market remains... remains to be... Oh God, I can't— "

The feed cut off and a title card took its place.

_Technical Difficulties  
Please Standby_

"Fuckers."

Aisha Laborn looked over to her dad and found him glaring. He leaned forward in his recliner, elbows on his knees and his fists balled tight. It was strange to see the glare not directed at Aisha for once, but there was no joy in that.

Her dad worked for Kronon. A security guard at the front desk. No one important. A job Aisha had called lame so many times before.

And now he didn't have it.

Aisha tried to extract herself from the couch, moving glacially slow like she was underwater, but the motion caught her dad's eye and he barked, “Aisha! Where you going?”

“Out,” Aisha mumbled, pulling away. Yelling? Had he already gotten to that stage? Aisha made for the closet.

"Out?” Her dad scowled at the very idea, “Out where?"

Aisha got a jacket and pulled it on. Her dad still hadn't gotten up from his chair. Good. Maybe she could get out of here without—

"AISHA!" Her father stood up, and she could see the veins popping in his neck.

“I’m just going out, dad!” Aisha said, backing away, inching towards the door. “I’ll be back later.”

"Later? The hell you mean! It’s already past ten and you want to go out!" He shook his head.

“Yeah,” Aisha said. She really didn’t want to be here. Not when he was on edge like this. Anything little thing could set him off and the longer she stuck around, the more that thing ended up being her. “I’m just going out for a little. Take a walk, whatever.”

Her dad’s eyes narrowed and Aisha was already wincing, getting ready for the shouting.

But it never came. She looked up and saw her dad with his mouth closed, a weary look in his eyes.

"Fine," he growled and waved his hand, "Go on and git."

Aisha stared, dumbfounded as her dad sank back in his recliner without another word.

Feeling oddly quiet, Aisha pulled the jacket on and walked out the door. Things were bad. They had to be, there was no other explanation for her dad being... like that.

But worrying about it wouldn't do Aisha any good. She pulled the jacket on a little tighter and quickened her pace. She needed a breather anyways. Maybe she'd go see if Tammy wanted to hang out. The two of them could figure out something fun to do, she was sure of it.

She came out the projects building and stuffed her hands into her pockets. New York was the city that never slept, but even New York could get quiet depending on where you were. There was none of the flash of Times Square here or any sign of the bubbling night life of SoHo. Chinatown wasn’t far, but at this time of night, most of the shops were closed, and the streets that were usually teeming with people were bare. The only place around here that would be open was Tammy’s place.

Well, her parent’s place. Mr. and Mrs. Lau had owned The Easy Lounge for just about forever and it was something of a neighborhood secret. The Easy Lounge didn’t have a sign up front, no opening or closing times, not even a stand to announce itself. The doorway was squeezed between restaurants, and inside was little more than a staircase. The only outward indication that The Easy Lounge existed at all was a placard slotted in the building’s directory. Third floor, fortune teller, second floor, massage parlor and in the basement, a little bar known as The Easy Lounge.

Aisha crossed a street, walking a red and went in the door. She swung around a corner and took the stairs down.

Immediately, she noticed something wrong.

There were _people_ in The Easy Lounge. Not just a few locals as it was supposed to be, but a _lot_ of people. Aisha took a few more steps down, wondering for a moment if she was in the right place. There were still the familiar bits, the half-hearted lighting, the oppressively low ceiling and the faint whiff of dumplings and beer. There was no doubt about it, it was The Easy Lounge, but the bar was packed with people, wall-to-wall. The tables and chairs had been pushed aside and even a few people had gotten atop the bar to sit on it.

It might’ve been a packed club, a dance floor full of people, but there was none of that energy here. There was no music, save for the sound of people murmuring amongst themselves. They didn’t seem to be doing much of anything, the only hint of a direction was that they were all facing the stage. Normally, the stage was only meant for karaoke, just a little platform elevated a few steps up, but tonight there was no machine or screen, just a single podium and mic.

Aisha was technically and legally too young to be in The Easy Lounge, but she had never felt so out of place here.

“Aisha!” a voice hissed.

She turned and saw Tammy squeezing through a couple to get over to her.

“Aisha,” said Tammy in a hushed voice, “What are you doing here?”

“Tammy!” Aisha whispered back, happy to see a familiar face. She wanted to hug Tammy, but stopped as she got a closer look of her friend. Tammy had a tired look on her face, one that reminded her of the newscaster’s.

“Tammy,” Aisha said, suddenly wary, “What the hell is going on?”

“Don’t worry about it. Just… you need to go. You can’t be here.”

“What? Why?”

“Look, you just can’t, okay? You're not a member. Now go before someone—”

A voice came on, amplified through a mic. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming out tonight.”

Aisha looked over to the other end of the room. Someone had gotten up on stage. A woman.

She was tall and thin with creamy white skin. Her hair was brown, but there were streaks of white in them. She was middle-aged, but not old. She had the eyes of a teacher, eyes that swept over the room looking for troublemakers. To speak out of turn was to do wrong, and when she held her silence, so did everyone else.

“Some of you have seen me before,” said the woman, starting slow, “but I think many of you are here for the first time. I imagine most of you aren’t quite sure what you’re getting into here. Some of you have concerns, you’re thinking this is some sort of scam or cult or what-have-you.”

“You saying it ain’t?” yelled a voice in the crowd, and a bubble of nervous laughter rippled through.

The woman was unfazed.

“It ain’t,” she said and smiled. “But I’ll tell you what, you _have_ been scammed.”

A murmur went through the crowd, uncertain, but the woman went on.

“If you bought into a con and put everything you had into it, would you have the strength to pull out? If you were forced into a cult from the day you were born, would you have the courage to break away? If you were cheated out of a fair share your whole life, would you start thinking maybe that’s what you deserved?

“Things are bad. You all know it. You only have to look at your neighbor’s face to see. There’s worry in their eyes, fear for what’s to come. Things are bad. People are losing everything. Jobs, homes, livelihoods, it’s all going down the drain. The news says, we’re on the brink of a depression.”

The woman shook her head. “But that’s not right. We’re not on the brink, we’re on the _road_ to depression. This is how the system was designed! A highway downhill. The economists and analysts will call it a cycle. The market grows and contracts, it bubbles and then it pops. And if companies collapse and people lose their jobs and their homes, well that’s just part of the cycle.

The woman held her silence and this time there was no murmurs.

“When my company’s stock goes up, what does it mean for me? Do I get a pay raise? Do I get better benefits? Or do I just get more of the same? Just a paycheck that’s flatlining while the rent is inflating.

“And when the stocks are down… well, you all know what happens. When the company collapses, all the CEOs and big executives, they get severance packages, ten million, twenty, even fifty million dollars. And for everyone else in the company, for the people who actually worked and put in the time, what do they get for all their sacrifice?

“Nothing more than a lost job. All the time you put in, the weekends you worked away from your family, the sleepless nights on deadline, the years of _loyalty_ you gave to your company. And _nothing_ to show for it. The company leaves you out to dry because not once did they ever have a scrap of loyalty to you.

“Now I know there’s quite a few of you here that are waiting on a paycheck that won’t come. Hours that you worked, that the company simply can’t be bothered to pay. I know that puts you in a hard position. Many of you are deciding whether to skip on rent or just not eat. You’re not sure if you’ll be able to make it through the month at all.

“And why? Why is this happening to you?

“Because the market says so? Because the economy works in cycles? Because some billionaire businessman lied? Peter Brabeck, Dan Hutchens, and the latest, Fredrik Lindh. The cheats, scammers and frauds at the top of our society. They lied and stole from the people and now that the truth has come to light, _we_ lose our jobs? _We_ lose our homes? _We_ have to pay the price?

The woman banged a fist on the podium.

“Does that make _any_ sense? Does that seem _fair_? Does that seem like _justice_?”

Aisha balled her fists together. The woman’s words had captured her. Aisha wasn’t sure when it had happened, but it had. And now she knew she needed to add her voice. Standing on her toes, straining her lungs, she shouted with all her might, “NO!”

“No!” the woman repeated back, “It is criminal, it is unjust. It is an attack on each and every one of you, no better than a thief stealing bread straight from your hands.

“A crime committed against the people and you know what these thieves expect you to do about it?

She looked at the crowd, but no one answered.

“They expect you to do nothing. They expect you to carry on like this is just the way things are. They _want_ you to say, ‘life is unfair’ as if that’s how things ought to be now and forever. As you lose your homes, as you and your family go hungry, they expect you to simply accept your fate. They’ll call it part of the system, part of the cycle, they’ll dangle the possibility that things might get better while you _starve_. What they want more than anything is for you to keep your head down and your mouths shut.

The woman snarled, an almost feral sound, “But they have another thing coming. We’re not going to let that happen. We’re not going to give up without a fight.”

Someone shouted their agreement, another clapped their hands and hollered.

“We’re going to get out on the streets.”

Another yell, more cheering.

“We’re going to march to the White House, to Congress, to Wall Street, to every last one of their strongholds!”

People stomped their feet, eager to move.

“We’re going to take hold of those cheats and frauds and we are going to. Make. Them. PAY!”

The basement erupted. People shouting and yelling. With all the jumping and stomping, the whole building shook.

The crowd thrummed around Aisha, electric, and she couldn’t contain it any longer. She thought of her father, the look of defeat on his face and she let out a shout, “MAKE THEM PAY!”

She raised her fist and said it again. The words had taken hold and another voice joined in.

“MAKE THEM PAY!”

The words spread, the energy infectious. The voices doubled, tripled, until everyone was chanting it.

“MAKE THEM PAY!”

“MAKE THEM PAY!”

“MAKE THEM PAY!”


	5. Chapter 5

**July 28**

The song of the city streets, cars packed bumper to bumper each letting loose on their horn. The cacophony echoed between the skyscrapers, as if the city itself was honking back. A hellish concert, people screaming with their vehicles.

"What do they think they're accomplishing?" grumbled Feldman. He drummed his fingers against the wheel.

Beside him in the passenger seat, Alex sat back, half-bored, half-smiling, somehow serene in gridlocked New York traffic.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

Feldman shot her a sour look. "Obviously, I’m talking about the honking. What good is it? What's the point?" Feldman's drumming fingers picked up speed. "If any of us could move, we would. Do they think that honking is doing any good at all?"

"So they should just suffer in silence then?"

"Yes! I'm doing it, so can they!"

Alex stifled a giggle and Feldman scowled.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

Alex looked over at him with that insufferable half-smile. "It's nothing much. Just that yelling about the honking hardly seems like 'suffering silently.'"

Feldman's mouth opened and closed. His partner had a point.

“Alright, you got me,” Feldman said. “I might have a temper. Call it a flaw.” He eyed Alex. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

If Feldman was going to be stuck in traffic with no way to get to the Brabeck case, then he might as well solve the other case on his hands. The case of who Alex Andrea really was.

“I want to know my new partner a little better,” Feldman said, shrugging, “You have any flaws? Anything you’d like to share?”

“Hmm,” Alex made a show of tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Flaws, flaws… flaws that I’d like to share...”

“It can’t be that hard, can it?”

“Is it arrogant, if I say it is?”

Slowly, Feldman nodded. “Yes, actually.”

“Then we’ll go with that. I’m _arrogant_.”

Feldman frowned.

“Is that not flawed enough?” asked Alex.

“No, it’s fine," Feldman lied, "We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t mind, Feldman. Really, I don’t.” Alex shrugged. “I’m just bad at small talk.” She smiled. “Call it a flaw.”

“Hm.” Feldman had no idea if she was joking or not. It was tough to tell when everything was said in that same amused tone. “So what school did you go to?”

“You mean college?”

“Yeah. Let me guess. You’re Yale.”

“Afraid not.”

“Harvard?”

“I’ve been there, but only as a visitor.”

Feldman chewed the inside of his cheek. He had her pegged as an Ivy League since the moment they met. “So where then?”

“None,” Alex said, “I never went to college. In fact, I’m not even a high school graduate.”

Feldman turned to look at her, but it was no use. He couldn’t tell if she was lying or not if she just kept the same face on the whole time.

“Are you saying you had no education at all?”

“I had an education. I was homeschooled.”

“And the PRT just… hired you like that?”

“I had a number of recommendations.”

It was clear she wasn’t taking this seriously. Feldman looked away. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Really? A PRT agent who doesn't believe in something strange?” She laughed. "That's new."

She was fucking with him. She was good at it, too. She didn’t flinch or blink, or even seem aware of how ridiculous her words sounded. If this was supposed to be a joke, Feldman didn’t appreciate it. “I’ve been in the PRT for more than ten years, I think I would have heard of an agent being hired with no prior credentials and only some… recommendations.”

“You wouldn't have heard of it because it was before your time.”

“Before my time?” Feldman scoffed. “How old are you?”

“That, I’m afraid, is classified,” Alex smiled, “and also personal.”

Feldman stared at her.

A tune came on, a tinkle of notes like a music box playing.

Alex pulled out a phone, excused herself and put it to her ear. "Go ahead," she said.

Feldman looked away and let out a breath. He was letting his emotions get the better of him. There was no doubt she was playing with him, and if he let himself get upset then he was just playing right into her hands. He didn’t know why Director Armstrong saw fit to partner him with this woman. He had a few guesses, of course, each more paranoid than the last.

Feldman shook his head. He was getting carried away. If he didn’t focus, his thoughts would spiral out of control down a pit of no-return. He was still technically on the job. The case of Peter Brabeck was still on the table and now that he had the appropriate warrants, he could actually talk to the man who had seen Brabeck last. Another billionaire by the name of Richard Fairfax, a big-time venture capitalist, and a close friend of Brabeck’s.

Well, he _would_ be talking to Fairfax if it wasn’t for this _traffic_. They had already been stuck here for two hours. Feldman ground his teeth together. Back to the beginning then, stuck. A chorus of car horns went off as if to mock him.

"I see," Alex said, still on the phone. "Thank you for letting me know. Yes. Yes, I will. Goodbye."

She hung up and turned to Feldman. "Good news and bad news. Which would you rather hear first?"

Feldman sighed. Figuring out who Alex Andrea really was would have to come later, he had a case to crack. "Something good, please."

"The good news is that we won't be stuck in traffic any longer."

"Really?" Feldman perked up, craning his head to look over the car in front. "Do you see cars moving?"

Alex smiled and ignored his question. "The bad news is that we're going to have to walk."

" _What_?"

"Driving is out of the question today. New York is locked down."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Let's take a look, shall we?" Alex popped the car door open and stepped out.

Feldman stared at the empty seat for a moment. Did his new partner just lose her mind? Maybe she wasn't as peaceful as she looked.

And then he heard it. A rumble. Low, deep, not louder than the honking of the packed cars, but an unshakeable undercurrent

Feldman got out of the car, and the instant he put his foot down on the concrete he could feel the rumble. The vibrations went all the way up to his gut. But he couldn't see what was causing it, not with how far the traffic jam stretched.

"Here," Alex said. She had gotten up on top of the car and she held her hand out to Feldman. "Come on, you'll want to see this."

A part of Feldman wanted to tell her off, to get off the car (it was a rental). But she was right. He did want to see this. Feldman took her hand and clambered up. Standing on the hood, Feldman finally had a clear view.

It was more traffic. An endless amount. An impossible amount. How could they possibly be packed so close together?

Feldman squinted. The traffic was moving. And they had banners. Signs.

Feldman's mouth fell open. It wasn't cars, but people. A protest. They flooded the streets, packed from one end of the street to another. They filled the gaps between cars and then some. The rumble grew stronger, louder. There had to be thousands, hundreds of thousands. Maybe even millions.

"What are they protesting?" Feldman asked to no one in particular.

Alex hopped down from the car and she looked back at Feldman. She didn't look bored anymore. She was grinning. "Isn’t it obvious?"

Feldman supposed it was. He took another look at the crowd. They didn't seem violent, but there was no way this protest had been sanctioned.

"It could be dangerous," Feldman said.

"Don't worry, I can protect you."

Feldman flushed. "I'm saying we should head back.”

“Head back?” Alex shook her head, chuckling. “The man we’re looking for is over there. We can’t turn back now.”

“Sure we can, we’ll go see him tomorrow.”

“He might not be there tomorrow.”

“What?”

Alex gave Feldman a flat stare. “I’m saying there’s quite a few people who are mad at people like him.”

Feldman frowned. “You think it’s going to turn into a riot?”

“I’d be surprised if it doesn’t. But either way, I don’t expect Fairfax to stick around to find out.”

Feldman’s frown grew deeper. If Fairfax left, who knew where’d he go. Maybe to a beach house in Miami. Or a bunker in Colorado. Or worse, entirely out of the country where the PRT’s jurisdiction couldn’t reach him.

Feldman sighed. “Why can’t anything go right?”

Alex hopped down from the car. “It’ll be fine.”

Feldman stared down at her, incredulous. “What do you mean, it’ll be fine? How the hell are we supposed to get to Fairfax through all those people!”

Alex held her hand out. “Trust me. I know a way.”

Feldman scowled at the hand. Trusting this mystery woman was just about the last thing he’d ever do.

Feldman hopped down without her help, but he didn’t turn away. As much as he hated to admit it, Alex was right. This might be their only chance to get to Fairfax. Their only chance to figuring out what really happened to Peter Brabeck.

Feldman glanced at Alex. She was smiling at him, like she was untouchable. Well, if Feldman went with her, maybe he’d have a chance of figuring just who she was, too.

Sighing, grumbling, cursing his rotten luck, Feldman walked towards her. “Let’s go already.”

Alex beamed. “Glad you decided to come along.”

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

Alex laughed. “Probably.”


	6. Chapter 6

Her name was Annette Hebert, she led the Worker's Reform Movement and Aisha had never met anyone like her before.

She was the leader, the big speechmaker, but she wasn’t just giving orders. She was down in the thick of it, arranging transportation, making sure people had water and food, and just... talking to people.

On the day of the protest, Annette led from the front, marching at the head of their group. The Movement numbered a few thousand, a drop in the bucket compared to the entire protest, but more than enough to make a difference.

The protest wasn't just a protest. It was an uprising, the entire city had come to life. Thousands or millions, it was impossible for Aisha to know. The people filled the roads and sidewalks in every direction, and though progress was glacial, the people made their way gradually downtown.

Everyone seemed to share the idea of going to Wall Street, but where exactly, no one agreed. Some were heading to gather in a park, a historical battleground for the Movement, but not their target today. Other protestors were planning on camping outside the Stock Exchange, a powerful symbolic action, but not enough for the Movement.

For the Movement, there was only one place that would hold any meaning. Deep in the heart of Wall Street, not far from where the police had set up a makeshift headquarters, was a skyscraper. A soulless monument of glass and steel like so many others, this one was distinguished only by the gleaming white letters that read:

FAIRFAX

Aisha didn’t know it, but it was here that the Movement would start their revolution.

\---

The people below infested the streets. Swarming the roads, scurrying about, shouting so loud that Richard Fairfax could hear them all the way up on the 50th floor. Although it was only a mild buzz, it was an insistent, incessant irritant. A vile sound to match a vile sight, but Fairfax couldn't bring himself to look away.

"Is the helicopter here yet?" Fairfax asked.

Behind Fairfax, his assistant coughed, "Sir, there's a few problems with that..."

"Problems?"

"Well, uh, sir. Th-there’s a no-fly policy in Manhattan. No one is getting any clearance to—"

Fairfax shot his assistant a withering glare. It was so hard to get competent help these days. His cringing assistant was made for holding papers and keeping track of dates, and even that, he usually found a way to screw up.

"Get the mayor on the phone then," Fairfax growled, "Tell him _I_ need clearance."

"I-I've tried, sir. The mayor's line is completely busy."

Fairfax hissed under his breath, "Useless."

"Um, sorry, sir, I didn't quite catch that?"

Fairfax turned away from the window. "I said get out of my office. I'll handle this myself."

"Er, yes, of course, sorry, sir." His assistant bowed his head and retreated out the door.

Useless. All of them useless.

Fairfax went to his desk and sat down. Before him were two phones, one a typical office phone, a relic of the 80s, the other was an old rotary phone, an artifact in comparison. Beside them was a yellow notepad and pen. The only tools Fairfax had ever needed.

He picked up the rotary phone and dialed the mayor. His finger going round and round, each number set with a satisfying whirr as the dial rewound itself. The last number went in and the dialtone started.

It rang. And rang. And rang until it came to voicemail.

Fairfax hung up. The bastard was ignoring him. Well, if that was how the worm wanted to play it, then Fairfax would have to get the mayor’s attention by other means.

Fairfax took a moment to remember the next number, but once he had it, he was dialing immediately. The rotary phone whirred and then clicked as it rang again.

This time, the call was picked up on the first ring.

"Hello?" came a woman's breathless voice.

"Hello Kimberly," Fairfax said, "It's Richard Fairfax."

"Richard? What? How did you get this number?"

"That's not important, Kimberly. We have a crisis on our hands and I need to get in touch with your husband immediately."

"What? I— "

" _Immediately_ , Kimberly."

"Um, sure. Of course. What should I..."

"Call him, Kimberly, and tell him to call me. It's a very urgent matter."

"Sure, I will. I— "

Fairfax hung up. That would get his attention.

He picked up the other phone, the ordinary one fit for any office space. There was no lengthy dialing with this one, just a single number pushed and the response was immediate.

The office door opened and a man stepped into the room. A man completely unlike Fairfax's pencil-necked assistant. This was a giant in a suit. Six feet of muscle, a trimmed beard that hid a brick jaw, and hands big enough to wrap around a melon. Fairfax’s bodyguard and head of security, Redwood.

"What’s our situation?" Fairfax asked.

“Tense,” grunted Redwood, "Nothing so far."

So far. Fairfax frowned. There was an air of inevitability there. “How is the security downstairs?”

Redwood shrugged, moving mountainous shoulders. "Could be better."

"Worst case scenario then, how long would it last?"

Another shrug. "Depends. There's a lot of them out there."

Fairfax scowled. Redwood could be annoyingly obtuse at times. "An hour? Two?"

Fairfax's bodyguard took a moment to think, before nodding. "Yeah. We could last two."

"Good. Make sure of it. We'll be getting our ride out of here soon."

"You got it, boss."

Redwood turned and walked out, already pulling out a radio before the door even closed.

Fairfax watched him go, satisfied. Communication issues aside, Redwood was a man who knew violence, a man who lived and breathed it. Redwood had all the proper credentials, military, special forces, that sort of thing, but more importantly Fairfax had seen with his own eyes just how easily Redwood could break a man’s bones with his fists. Though it was hardly elegant, it always paid to have someone who could get their hands dirty.

The way things were going, those hands would be dirty soon. The buzz of the protest below whined a little louder. The bastards just didn't know when to quit.

The rotary phone rang. The mayor had finally gotten the message. Fairfax let it go for a few moments before picking up.

“Yes?” Fairfax said.

“Richard, what’s this about?” barked the mayor, “What’s so urgent you have to call my wife?”

No fuss with small talk, then. Just how Fairfax liked it. “I need clearance for a helicopter at Westchester County Airport to my building in Manhattan. I need it now.”

The mayor groaned. “Richard, I can’t do that. There’s a state of emergency. The airspace is completely closed over the city.”

“So make an exception.”

“Richard...”

“Perhaps you misheard me, Tom? Get me clearance.” Fairfax sneered. Subtlety was useless on idiots. “Do I have to remind you who funded your campaign?”

A sigh came through the phone. “No, I remember, Richard. I appreciate it, I— ”

“I’m not hearing a yes.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that! This is an order from the FAA! Even the National Guard is involved!”

“So talk to them. Make them understand.”

Silence on the other end.

Fairfax frowned. It seemed the mayor needed a push. “Next election is in a year, Tom. Perhaps I should throw your rival’s campaign a fundraiser?”

“Now, Richard…”

“I think I’ll invite all of my friends. Together we might be able break last year’s fundraising record.”

Another sigh, but this one was of resignation. “I’ll talk to them, okay? I’ll try.”

“Make it _happen_ , Tom.”

Fairfax hung up. He didn’t care to hear any more excuses. The mayor was an idiot, he’d do as he was told. Whether his words would have any effect was another matter.

If the National Guard had gotten involved then things were worse than Fairfax thought. Fairfax stood up from his desk and headed to the glass wall that overlooked the city. He could still hear the unruly mob below. In fact, they had gotten louder.

A scowled pulled against his lips. “Protestors” was too civilized a word for these thugs. They cried and whined, looted and destroyed property, always with some new complaint. They could never be happy with anything. Give them an inch and they’d demand another.

The noise grew louder and began to gain a rhythm. The mob was chanting something.

It was fuzzy, muffled by distance and the (supposedly) soundproof glass. But syllable by syllable, Fairfax was able to piece the words together.

_Make. Them. Pay._

Fairfax yanked himself away from the glass and made a beeline to the rotary phone. The mayor hadn’t called yet, the useless idiot. No, Fairfax couldn’t rely on him. He picked up the phone and started dialing. He’d have to pull some other strings, put some more pressure on. Fairfax would call the governor. And then the senators. Maybe Fairfax could even get in touch with the National Guard. Whatever it took, it didn’t matter. Fairfax just needed to get out of here.

\---

Feldman stared down at the train tracks. “This is your secret way?”

“Yup,” Alex replied. She hopped down from the platform and landed between the rails. She looked back up at Feldman with a smile. “Don’t worry, the trains won’t be running while the city is on lockdown.”

Feldman didn’t move. They had found the underground subway station completely empty, the stairs down blocked with thin red tape and only a hastily scrawled sign for an explanation: “NO SERVICE”. It seemed pretty definitive. Feldman cleared his throat and the sound echoed back at him. If it wasn’t, then they’d be paste.

“There’s no trains, Feldman,” Alex said, sensing his doubts, “The mayor’s declared a state of emergency. The trains will have dumped their passengers at the closest station and then moved on to sit in the middle of a tunnel. It’s standard procedure.”

“And you know this, how?”

“What, you haven’t read the NYC Emergency Service manual?”

“No,” Feldman said, giving her the side-eye, “I haven’t. How would you even remember that?”

“I have very good memory.”

Feldman groaned. What had he done to deserve this person?

“Are you coming down or what?” asked Alex.

Feldman sighed, “Yeah. I guess I am.”

He dropped down, kicking up a cloud of dust as he landed.

“Mind the third rail, it’ll fry you in a second if you touch it.”

“Of course,” Feldman said, “You mention that _after_ I’m down here.”

“Technically, with the city locked down, it should be shut off,” Alex smiled at Feldman, “But no reason to take the chance, right?”

Feldman shook his head, and pushed past his partner to take the lead. He walked on the side without the third rail, putting as much space between it and himself. If only he could do the same with his partner. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Alex had no trouble keeping up with him. Feldman didn’t care to look her way, but he knew she was smiling still.

“How far do we have to walk?” asked Feldman.

“The Fairfax building is only one station away, but on foot… it’ll be a while. Still faster than trying to wade our way through the crowd above ground.”

Alex was likely right, but Feldman didn’t care to say so.

They walked through the tunnel, the glow from the station waning behind them. Feldman took out his phone and put on the light. The tunnel had already been dirty, soot and dust everywhere, but the darkness made it worse. Brown splotches became black, the grime on the floor and walls inescapable. The light from his phone was all they had to lead them through the tunnel.

Feldman glanced at Alex. It seemed she didn’t mind. But as Feldman was learning, nothing seemed to faze her at all.

“Do you mind if I ask you something?” said Feldman.

“Go ahead,” Alex said, “I can’t guarantee I’ll answer, though.”

“You were pretty insistent that I come with you.”

“That’s not a question, Feldman.”

“You’re clearly not just some PRT agent. I _know_ you have some sort of special forces background.”

“Again, not a question. And I’m not sure how you would ‘know’ that.”

“You fit a certain profile. The detached nonchalance, the hyperawareness during a crisis situation and the bravado facing it.”

“Profiling your partner, Feldman? Have you no shame?"

Feldman ignored her mock hurt. “You’re clearly trained, I don’t think I’ve seen your hand tremble or your leg shake a single time. No noticeable perspiration or heavy breathing despite our trek. You don’t fidget at all.”

“Those aren’t questions, Feldman. Just creepy observations.”

“When we first met, Director Armstrong said you worked at other departments.”

“Did he?”

“You know he did. Your memory is ‘very good’, right?”

Alex laughed. “So is your’s.”

“Were you ATF? FBI? CIA?”

“If you’re looking for tells, I don’t have them.”

“CIA, then. They’re the only ones who would have that sort of training.”

“I could have learned how to keep a poker face on my own, you know. Maybe I just like poker.”

Feldman arched an eyebrow. “Do you like poker?”

Alex shrugged. “No. Too easy.”

Feldman frowned. "You're enjoying this."

"Sure. Why wouldn't I?"

Feldman's frown grew into a scowl. Alex still hadn’t broken a sweat. She wasn’t even mad that Feldman was trying to crack her confidentiality.

“Alright, fine. I’ll just ask my question.”

“Please.”

“Why are you on this case? You don’t strike me as the ‘just following orders’ type. What’s in it for you?”

The corner of Alex’s lips tugged upwards. “That’s confidential.”

“You don’t actually care about that,” Feldman said.

“I care a _little_.”

Feldman glanced her way. A “little” had been a lot more than he anticipated.

Alex shrugged. "Maybe, I'll tell you later."

And with that half-hearted answer, the two of them lapsed into silence. While Alex walked serenely on, Feldman was furiously (and quietly) trying to process the onslaught of new information about his partner. The possibilities were still immense, but whatever Alex's reasons were, Feldman knew she was important. And dangerous.

Eventually they came upon the next subway station and it was just as empty as the station before. Muffled through the ceiling however, Feldman could hear the roar and rumble of the people above. Either there were more people here or they were just that much louder. Feldman wasn’t sure which would be worse. He supposed, in the very worst case, it would be both.

Alex hopped up onto the platform without any trouble while Feldman had to clamber at the edge, straining until Alex pulled him the rest of the way up. Feldman took a moment to dust himself off, and as he did, a staccato sound began to beat.

Underground it was all percussion, and the vibration shook the dust off the ceiling. The sound throbbed around them, not only echoing through the station, but transmitting through it. Feldman winced as his eardrums began to ache, and he clamped his hands over them.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and saw Alex with one hand on her ear, wincing as well. It seemed an impossible expression for her, but there it was. She pointed with her free hand to the stairs and Feldman got the message.

The two of them, pushed towards the exit, hands on their ears. With each step they took, the intensity of the vibrations waned, but the sound itself grew louder, clearer. Feldman could pick out the voices behind it. All the people speaking at once, unified in a chant. They sucked in a breath, and at the top of their lungs yelled all together:

_MAKE THEM PAY_

Feldman looked at Alex and found her smiling. She spoke, and though it was impossible to hear her, Feldman could read her lips.

_It’s starting._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update will be in two weeks.


	7. Chapter 7

The crowd roared, fists pumping in the air, feet pounding against pavement, their combined voice making the air tremble.

" _Stay close_ ," mouthed Alex, her own voice drowned out.

Feldman nodded wordlessly, content to let her lead the way. The press of the crowd was thick, no longer marching, they clumped together united at the feet of the Fairfax building which loomed above. Some had even linked arms in brotherhood or unity or something.

Whatever it was, Alex didn’t care. She strode through the crowd unerringly straight. She cut between partners, not pushing her way through, but repelling them as if they were the same end of a magnet. Some of the separated shouted their displeasure, but the chanting was still too loud to make anything specific out. Feldman could only bow his head apologetically as he passed and hope they didn't take their anger out on him.

The Fairfax building was the goal post at the end of the crowd. Fifty stories tall, home to a number of financial companies, but most especially the eponymous Fairfax Holdings. Any other time and none of these people would have been allowed within a hundred yards of the building, but today they were pressed against the glass walls.

Feldman and Alex had made good progress through the crowd and maybe a few enemies. They were nearly at the lobby doors now. The next question was figuring out how to get into the building and see Fairfax. Feldman doubted the warrant would do much to impress a wound-up security team. He looked up at the building, the tower of steel and glass resolute before the teeming crowd. Feldman would have to figure something out. What exactly, he didn’t know, but it wouldn’t be easy, that was for sure.

\---

Fifteen minutes. Fairfax stared at a tablet in front of him, a camera feed of the lobby being played on screen. It was an impeccable lobby, polished marble, high ceilings and a wide open space. The whole decor was a statement in a city of skyrocketing rent. The picture quality was sharp enough that Fairfax could pick out all the little details, but it was outside the glass walls that captured his attention. Just outside the Fairfax building the mob roared, flailing, screaming, frothing at the mouth. A mindless, seething mass of madness and they were after _him_.

Fifteen minutes. Fairfax put his hand on the rotary phone, but didn’t pick it up. Who else was there left to call? Fairfax had gotten the police commissioner to send a riot squad his way, and more importantly Fairfax had finally bought his air clearance. The helicopter was already in the air, just fifteen minutes away. Fifteen whole minutes.

To call anyone else again would compromise Fairfax. It would betray weakness. He pulled his hand away from the phone and instead picked up a radio. A quick glance at the clock and he saw it was fourteen minutes now. Fairfax just needed to last fourteen more minutes.

Fairfax keyed the radio. “Redwood, report.”

“We’re dug in and ready. Barricades around the elevators and stairs. No one’s going up without our say.”

Fairfax switched the feed to confirm his head of security’s words. Sure enough, at the elevators a haphazard wall of office furniture had been thrown together. Desks, chairs and conference tables all piled atop each other, it would have been a laughable sight were it not for Redwood and his security team, four burly men all armed with submachine guns.

Fairfax switched back to view the crowd. Somehow, the mob had grown even more wild. The animals clamored for blood, pumping fists and signs in the air, their chant echoing in the distance despite the soundless feed.

“And you’re confident you can hold out?” Fairfax asked, forcing his voice steady.

“Very,” Redwood replied.

“Good. Our ride will be arriving in—”

A brick slammed into the glass wall. It didn’t break through, but a spider web crack blossomed from the impact. Fairfax’s chest tightened as if he had been the one hit.

“Redwood…”

“I see it, boss.”

Another brick hit the glass and the wall buckled, bending at the corner.

Sweat popped along the back of Fairfax’s neck. The knuckles of the hand holding the radio was bone-white.

“Stop them, Redwood. Whatever it takes.”

“Whatever it takes?”

Damn Redwood. Damn him, he wanted to be difficult? Now, of all times? Fairfax’s chest ached.

The third and fourth brick came in quick succession. The third punched clean through and dashed itself against the marble floor. The fourth slammed into the glass full force, and the whole wall wobbled and with painstaking slowness, crumpled to the floor.

The lobby was open. The crowd roared.

“Just do it!” Fairfax screamed. “Shoot them!”

Fairfax barely heard Redwood’s voice, quiet and even, “You got it, boss.”

\---

There was a sound. A series of cracks and booms loud enough to finally cut through the crowd’s chant.

It took Feldman a moment to figure out what it was. Alex, on the other hand, was quicker on the uptake.

She whipped around, pulled Feldman into a hug and hunkered down.

“Uh,” Feldman said. 

"Don't move," Alex hissed.

The sound persisted, popping, snapping and finally the chanting faltered and instead they began to scream.

It was gunfire. Feldman’s blood ran cold. Someone was shooting into the crowd.

A ripple went through the masses. Confusion at first, then fear, and then to panic. Those closest to the gunfire turned to run, but found nowhere to go. People were packed too tight, so instead they pressed, pushed, shoved and when someone fell, trampled. The screams turned to shouts, fear and anger mixed together. The unity of the protest had vanished, in a matter of seconds, it had become every person for themself.

And the gunfire went on, staccato beats layered over the other. There was more than one shooter. Two, three or more. It was hard for Feldman to tell when he was wrapped in Alex’s iron hug.

Feldman swallowed and found his voice. "We need to take cover."

" _Don't move_ ," Alex hissed again, still hugging him tight. _Shielding_ him with her body, Feldman realized. "I can't help you if you get trampled."

Feldman scowled. "We're exposed." He started to tug against Alex's arms. " _You're_ exposed."

A moment passed of Feldman squirming to get out, but he would have had better luck trying to move a building.

“I’ll be fine,” Alex said.

Someone screamed right next to them. The wave of people had reached them, and one ran straight into Alex before being bounced off back into the tide. A mass of flesh and fear buffeted them on all sides. A hand squeezed through Alex’s arms and grabbed a hold of Feldman’s side. The hand clutched at him until its fingers dug through his shirt and into his flesh. It pulled with a ferocious strength, trying to tear a chunk out of him and Feldman howled in response. If the hand’s owner noticed they were hurting Feldman, then they didn’t seem to care. The hand pulled harder as if to rip out Feldman’s ribs.

And then suddenly, the hand was no longer there. It vanished, lost in the crowd of flailing, scrambling limbs.

The crowd pressed beyond them, desperately trying to put as much distance between themselves and the ongoing gunfire.

Feldman groaned. He had barely moved, but he was breathing hard, his heart pounding in his chest. He put a hand to his side and found it warm and wet. Swallowing, he probed a little deeper and thankfully, he found the damage though painful, was minor. The wound was scalding to touch like it had been burned, but otherwise he hadn’t lost much more than skin. Feldman pushed his face to look up at Alex. She had lost her smile, but she didn’t seem her hurt.

“We need to get out of here,” Feldman said.

Alex frowned, but she said, “Fine. Stay low and let me lead.”

Before Feldman could protest, she released him. He stumbled a step until Alex caught him by the cuff of his collar. She tugged down, and he was forced down into a crouch. Without a moment’s pause, she began a half-walk, half-run, low to the ground.

Feldman coughed, struggling to keep up. This hardly seemed an improvement to before. "Alex, fuck, ow, this— "

A spark of gunfire interrupted him and there was the telltale whine of bullets being shot _at_ them. Not that Feldman had ever actually been shot at before. He didn’t even carry a gun when he worked.

Another spray screeched by, leaving a high-pitched ringing in his ears. Definitely being shot at and it was as terrible as it sounded.

Feldman’s mouth opened. To say something something or just to scream even he didn’t know.

What happened next was a blur.

Literally a blur. Washed-out concrete, steel and glass, blurred into meaningless greys and beiges with flashes of red.

All Feldman knew was that one moment he was outside getting shot at, and then in the next, he was inside down on the floor. He blinked, parsing the sudden change in surroundings. He saw marble floor littered with bodies and broken glass and an empty receptionist desk. Somehow, he had wound up in the lobby of the Fairfax building and farther in was a pile of office desks that had been split in two. Something had smashed through, moving so fast it had cleaved wood and steel without so much as a splinter. Feldman blinked again and he saw who was in the gap.

Alex, crouched on one knee, a black skidmark trailing her. Surrounding her were four large men in suits with a shocked expression much like Feldman’s. They were the shooters, judging by the submachine guns they held.

One shouted and turned his gun on Alex. She caught the gun by the barrel before it could fire and wrenched it out of his hands. With her other hand, she rose into an uppercut that caught the man under the chin. Perfectly executed, exceptionally fast, but nothing could have explained the force behind the blow. The man’s head snapped back until it bounced off his spine and he was flung into the air, completely boneless from the neck up.

Gunshots went off. The other three men had reacted fast, their instincts kicking in when shock should have. They fired point-blank with their guns, but Alex didn’t care. They only got a few shots off before she spun on her heel into a roundhouse kick that smashed arms and firearms alike.

Two of the men stumbled back, gasping and holding up mangled arms that hung by threads. Alex stepped forward and followed up her kick with another, this time taking off their heads. The last man, the biggest of the bunch screamed, an unintelligible, instinctual roar. He threw his ruined gun away and charged, raising a boulder-like fist.

Alex didn’t even bother to dodge. She planted her feet and took the punch to her jaw without even flinching.

“Wh-what…” gasped the man. He staggered and clutched his fist. It had come back ruined, the fingers bent black and blue.

Alex took a step toward the man.

“Wh-what are y— “

Alex put her fist through his chest. 

The man groaned, blood foaming at his lips. For a moment he clutched at Alex, trying to grab at her, but finding no purchase. Alex gave him a push with her other hand and the large man slid off her arm and into a pool of his own blood.

Alex sighed and turned to look at Feldman.

“Any chance you didn’t see all that?” she asked, completely covered in blood.

Feldman blinked. His eyes were dry. He had stared, transfixed, unmoving, barely breathing as he witnessed the most paranormal thing he had ever seen in his decade long career at the PRT. The impossible, the supernatural, the pants-shittingly terrifying. The smart thing would have been to lie.

“I…” Feldman said, wetting his lips, “I saw everything.”

“Fuuuuck.”

Feldman found his feet and stood. His knees were shaking so hard, they were in danger of knocking against each other. It was the least of his worries.

“Are you going to kill me now?” Feldman asked.

Alex looked at him and he flinched.

She sighed again. “No, Feldman.”

It took all of Feldman’s willpower to not melt with relief. Instead he just grasped his heart and hyperventilated. “Oh, thank God.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know I’m scary.”

Feldman jerked to look up at her. “You’re not God, are you?”

Alex put a hand to her face. “No, Feldman. I’m not God.”

That was one explanation out of the way. Feldman quickly started to compiled a list of other possibilities in his head. “Are you— “

“I’m not an alien, either,” Alex said, interrupting him, “Or an angel or a witch or an esper or whatever.”

“Oh.” Feldman frowned, digesting that. It seemed she wasn’t mythologically connected. “Then what about— “

“Look,” Alex said, cutting in again, “can we just… go and get Fairfax like we came here to do? He’s probably not going to be sticking around for much longer. And I’d really rather not have to chase him down again.”

Feldman looked at her. “But you could chase him down, right? Easily, even.”

“Yes, I could,” Alex said, rolling her eyes. “but in case it wasn’t clear, Feldman, I don’t like flaunting my powers. Now, come on.”

Alex turned and walked over to the elevators. One was still running and it opened immediately when called. Alex stepped in and Feldman was forced to catch up before the doors closed. She punched in the top floor and the elevator started to move.

“What are your powers exactly?” Feldman asked, unable to contain himself, “I’ve seen the strength, invulnerability and speed, but—”

“Wrong,” Alex said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Correct on the first two, wrong on the third. Strength and invulnerability, not speed.”

Feldman squinted. There hardly seemed to be a reason for her to lie to him _now_. “But I _saw_ it.”

Alex didn’t deign to look his way as she spoke. “No, you saw super strong legs launching me very fast. Not super speed. There’s a difference, please don’t make me explain it further.”

“Okay,” Feldman said, desperately wanting her to explain further, “then how about— “

“Feldman,” Alex interrupted him. He hadn’t noticed it at first because an hour ago, it didn’t seem possible, but now Feldman was realizing that this was Alex’s _annoyed_ voice. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions. And I promise I will answer them.” She looked over at him. Flecks of blood dotted her face. “I promise. But not right now, okay?”

Feldman closed his mouth and looked away. Suddenly, the image of Alex putting her fist through a man twice her size was very present in his mind.

It was a terrifying image. One that kept Feldman silent for about twenty floors as the elevator went up. But it was also an _incredible_ image. Impossible. Paranormal.

“Can I just ask one more question?” Feldman asked, speaking very quickly.

“Feldman, please don’t make me regret not killing you.”

Feldman swallowed, but spoke anyways, “Just one and then I promise I’ll shut up until you say it’s okay.”

Alex groaned. “Fine. One question. Ask.”

Feldman bit his lip. He had had a question in mind, but now it seemed stupid when it was possible it might be his last. Alex could kill him in the blink of an eye, maybe even _with_ a blink of an eye. She had already broken the barrier of impossible, every expectation for her was blown out of the water. Special forces? CIA? Feldman had wildly underestimated her, and now suddenly, the possibilities were limitless.

No, Feldman bit a little harder. Asking about her powers was pointless, there was nowhere for him to properly begin or end that line of interrogation. The same could be applied to where she got her powers from. Whatever answer she gave would be given without any context, none of which she was obliged to give with the “one question” limit. It was the wrong line of questioning to pursue, at least in this moment. Feldman had seen Alex (likely not her real name) tank bullets and tear through hardened professional security. He needed immediate information. Something he could use.

There was no guarantee she’d tell the truth, but with the right question, even what lie she chose to give would be meaningful.

Feldman licked his lips, the bottom one had begun to bleed a little, and it stung. He ignored it. They were on the fortieth floor and Alex was staring at him. Concerned? Interested? Her expression had returned to its unreadable state.

He hoped she wouldn’t kill him for his question: “Why didn’t you stop the men shooting, sooner?”

Alex gave an amused huff. “I killed those men to save your life, you know?”

“Thanks,” Feldman said, but he stared at her. She hadn’t answered him yet.

Alex sighed. “You would have been trampled to death if I’d left you sooner.”

“You could have thrown me somewhere safe. Or just carried me like you ended up doing.”

Alex frowned at him and Feldman looked away.

“Just an observation,” he said quickly. His gut clenched tight and the only thing that kept him standing was that he knew he had gotten to her. With the powers she displayed, Feldman was certain Alex could have stopped the shooters faster. She could have saved those people being run down with gunfire and being trampled. It would have exposed her and maybe she wouldn’t have been able to save all of them, but she had _chosen_ not to try until she _had_ to.

The elevator hit the fiftieth floor with a ding and the doors parted open.

“I gave up trying to play hero a long time ago.”

Feldman turned to look at Alex, but she was already walking away. Feldman was left to stare at her back. He could see clearly, the holes in her suit from when she had shielded him.

If Feldman was honest, he didn’t like her answer, but he stepped off the elevator and followed her anyway.


	8. Chapter 8

One minute left until the helicopter came and Fairfax was completely out of breath. Panting, his lungs burning, he leaned against the railing of the stairs and looked up. The rooftop door was just a little farther, just a few more steps and then he'd be safe.

Fairfax sucked in a breath and pushed onward, up the stairs. He was red and sweating, the pits of his shirt soaked. Why did it hurt so much? Fairfax strained against the stairs, pushing himself up onto the last step. He gasped and fumbled for the doorknob. When was the last time he had actually ran? Fairfax could scarcely remember.

Finally, Fairfax got the door open and a wave of cool air blasted him, swept the sweat clean off his brow. He took it all in. It was as though he could breathe again.

The helicopter, Fairfax's salvation, had come. Its blades spun, beating a ferocious wind that whipped at his hair.

"Come on!" came the pilot's shout. It sounded distant under the beat of the helicopter's blades, though he was actually only a few yards away. The pilot waved from his seat, beckoning to Fairfax. "We gotta go!"

Fairfax was saved. He stumbled into a jog, exhaustion forgotten for just that moment.

He was getting out of here. Away from those crowds. Away from that… impossible event he had seen on the camera feed. Fairfax refused to even think about it. He had hallucinated the carnage in the lobby, he was sure of it. The video of Fairfax's security team being torn to shreds, was just that, a video. A dream or a delusion or a trick of the eyes after a stressful day. With millions of rioters screaming for his blood, Fairfax could hardly be blamed if he saw things that weren't really there, could he?

It was best not to think about it.

Fairfax came to the helicopter and pulled the door open. He still refused to cry, but a gasp of relief came out as he started to clamber up. Fairfax had made it. He survived. He was finally safe.

A hand fell on his shoulder before he was fully in, and all forward momentum stopped.

"Mr. Fairfax," a woman said, her voice rising above the helicopter's rotor, "Do you mind if we talk?"

Fairfax turned to look at the woman and his heart fell. It was her. The woman who had killed Redwood and his security team. She hadn't even bothered to clean up the blood.

His head fell and the woman must have taken it as nod because she said, "Good."

She pushed him into the helicopter and a short man in a suit followed them in. They strapped in, sitting opposite of Fairfax.

"We're with the PRT, Mr. Fairfax," said the short man. "We have some questions for you."

Fairfax stared for a moment, confused. The PRT? The government department of flunkies? And they needed answers from him. Though Fairfax didn't dare meet the woman's eyes, a spark of hope lit inside him. Maybe he'd survive this mess after all.

\---

The helicopter took off without a hitch. The pilot was a consummate professional and when Alex said “government business” and Fairfax said “listen to them”, the pilot just nodded his head. It wasn't long until they were in the air, flying high above the teeming protestors below. There was still a city-wide protest going on in every street. People who likely had no idea anything bad had happened at the Fairfax building.

"When was the last time you saw Peter Brabeck?" Feldman asked.

Fairfax glared at Feldman and for a moment he didn't seem likely to answer. But then Alex shifted in her seat and his eyes flicked to her for a scant instant before he looked back at Feldman. The glare was gone; Fairfax would talk.

"You mean before his breakdown?" Fairfax said.

"Before he exposed his accounts, yes."

Fairfax dabbed at his sweaty brow. He was overweight more from age and lack of exercise than overeating, but he was beginning to calm down now that he was in the helicopter. He spoke with a surprising level of calm, "I saw him on the night before he went nuts. At one of his parties."

"What was he doing that night?"

Fairfax coughed. "Hard to say. I wasn't following him around."

"You were his friend, no?"

"Sure, and we talked a little, but we weren't glued at the hip. I don't know why he went crazy."

Feldman frowned, but that was more for show than anything. At least Fairfax was cooperating.

"What do you remember then?" asked Feldman.

Fairfax shook his head. "You have to understand... with the parties Peter threw, you don't do much remembering afterwards."

Feldman's eyes narrowed. Nothing could ever be easy, could it.

“There’s plenty of drinking going on, you understand, right?” Fairfax said.

Feldman grit his teeth. "Whatever you can remember," he said, "anything at all."

Fairfax blew out his cheeks. “Well, we talked by the pool. Traded stories for a bit.”

“About what?”

“Just travel stories.”

“Travel stories?”

“About Thailand. We talked about the best places to visit, the most exciting things to see, that sort of thing.”

“And that was all you talked about? Brabeck didn’t mention anything odd?”

“No. We just talked.”

Feldman scowled. The paunchy billionaire was hiding something after all. Just as Feldman was trying to figure out how to wrangle the information out of him, Alex spoke up.

“You’re lying,” she said.

Fairfax flinched. “What are you talking about?”

“I have a good eye for these sort of things.” Alex unbuckled herself and leaned forward in her seat. “You’re lying.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Fairfax said. He had difficulty meeting Alex’s eyes, but to his credit he didn’t shrink back.

Alex reached over and undid his seatbelt buckle. Fairfax froze in his seat as she did.

“N-now hold on.” Fairfax held a trembling hand up as if that could ward Alex back. “I’m… I’m cooperating.” His eyes flicked to Feldman and there was a desperate plea in them. “I… I want my lawyer.”

Alex didn’t even blink. She grabbed a fistful of his shirt and in a single smooth motion hoisted him up. Fairfax croaked like a frog and tried to push her off, but to no avail.

“Alex…” Feldman looked at her, “what are you doing?”

She didn’t reply. His stone-faced partner moved to the door, dragging Fairfax with her. She pulled the helicopter door open and immediately, the wind roared all around them.

“Alex!” Feldman shouted.

“W-wait! No!” cried Fairfax.

Wordlessly, her face an expressionless mask, Alex held Fairfax out the helicopter.

Fairfax dangled a thousand feet over the city, held up by only the fistful of his shirt that Alex had grabbed, and he screamed.

 

“Aaah! AAAH! AAAAH!” Short little yelps, interrupted by panicked gasps. His feet kicked wildly underneath him as if he could somehow swim away.

“You _lied_ , Mr. Fairfax,” Alex said, her voice even.

“AAAAH!”

“Alex!” shouted Feldman. He scrambled to unbuckle his seat as well, but to do what, he didn’t even know.

“I’m going to repeat the question, Mr. Fairfax,” Alex said, “And this time you’re going to tell the truth.”

“W-wait,” Fairfax desperately clung to Alex’s arm. “waitwaitwait, please! My shirt! MY SHIRT IS RIPPING!”

“DId Peter Brabeck mention anything _odd_ when you talked to him?”

“IT’S RIPPING! IT’S RIPPING, PLEASE!”

Feldman got himself free from his seat and he jumped to his feet. He didn’t dare lay a hand against Alex, but he stood just behind her and yelled, “Alex! Put him back inside!”

She didn’t even look back. “Answer me, Mr. Fairfax.”

“YES!” screamed Fairfax. “CHRIST! YES, OKAY?!”

“What did he say?”

“HE NEEDED MY HELP!”

“With what?”

“FUCK! MY SHIRT! IT’S RIPPING!” Sure enough, the threads were strained to their limit. A tear was starting to form around the patch Alex held.

“Alex…” Feldman’s eyes flicked back and forth between the tearing shirt and the emotionless woman. “That’s enough…”

Feldman might as well have been talking to a brick wall. Alex only had eyes for her target. “What did Peter Brabeck need your help with?”

Fairfax squeezed his eyes shut and he shouted at the top of his lungs. “HE NEEDED A LAWSUIT TO GO AWAY! HE—”

Fairfax words caught in his throat as he suddenly fell. His shirt had finally torn.

He let out a scream as he plummeted — exactly one foot.

Alex had caught him by the wrist. She pulled back and hauled the still screaming man back into the helicopter. Still betraying no emotions, Alex shut the helicopter door and sat across from Fairfax.

The billionaire was red-faced from screaming, but now that he was back on something solid, he started to catch his breath. His eyes were wide, almost disbelieving that he wasn’t dead. He looked up at Alex, flinched and immediately looked away. Maybe he might’ve been better off dead.

“So what was the lawsuit?” Alex asked.

“You…” breathed Fairfax, “you’re fucking insane.”

Silently, Feldman agreed, but he sat down next to Alex anyways. Fairfax was ready to talk now. To _really_ talk.

Alex’s stare was cold. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Fairfax swallowed and bowed his head. “Wrongful death.”

Alex waited for him to go on.

“It was a wrongful death lawsuit. There was an accident at one of Fortress’ construction sites.” Fairfax looked away. “Five people died.”

Feldman frowned. Something there didn’t add up. “Brabeck could have easily settled a lawsuit like that, maybe he’d lose a few million dollars over it, but nothing that would hurt him too badly,” Feldman said, tapping his chin, “Why would he need your help to make it ‘go away’?”

Fairfax kept his head low as he spoke, “Because it wasn’t an accident.”

Feldman raised an eyebrow.

“The workers were looking to unionize… They were threatening a major strike just before the completion of Fortress’ biggest tower yet.”

“So Brabeck had them killed.”

“I… I don’t think it was supposed to happen like that.”

“Sure,” Feldman said, not believing it for a second. “So then what?”

Fairfax went on in a monotone voice. “Peter didn’t want anyone looking any closer into the matter. He managed to get the police to close their investigation and he tried to settle the lawsuit with the families out of court.” He sighed. “All but one agreed to settle.”

“One family?” asked Feldman.

“One woman,” Fairfax said. “She lost her husband and daughter in the incident.”

Alex leaned forward. “What was her name?”

Fairfax flinched as Alex moved, but he knew better than to not answer. “Annette Hebert,” he said.

Alex laughed. A sudden short bark that made Feldman and even Fairfax stare at her.

“Mr. Fairfax,” said Alex, and the man flinched, “Do me a favor and cover your ears”

“I… what?”

“I don’t want you to hear our conversation. And believe me, I’ll know if you do. Now cover your ears.”

Fairfax swallowed again, but nodded. He obediently clamped his hands over his ears and curled into a ball as if hoping to be forgotten entirely.

“Annette Hebert...” Alex chuckled to herself. She looked over at Feldman. “Ms. Hebert is on the FBI watch list for politically subversive individuals. In fact,” Alex smiled, “she was at the protest today. Far enough in the back that I’m certain she wasn’t hurt during the shooting.”

Feldman stared at her. “How the _hell_ would you know that?”

“I saw her.”

“You _saw_ her? In that _huge_ crowd? That’s…” Feldman closed his mouth. He was about to say impossible, but then he remembered who he was talking to.

“I didn’t think anything of it at the time,” Alex said, “but there might be a connection there. Annette Hebert leads a radical left-wing group. It’d make sense for her to target billionaires... given the means.”

Feldman closed his eyes and switched gears, ignoring the insanity that was Alex. He focused instead on Annette Hebert, left-wing radical.

He didn’t have the whole picture, but the profile fit.

“When I was observing Brabeck’s interrogation,” Feldman said, “he went catatonic when he let slip that ‘ _She played him_ ’.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “She, huh?”

Feldman nodded. “She.”

Alex smiled. “Seems we have a suspect.”

“It seems so.”

Alex leaned back, satisfied. It was the happiest Feldman had seen her yet.

It made him curious.

For a while they flew on with only the sound of the helicopter’s blades beating above them. Greenery began to flash out the window, a sign that they had finally left the city limits.

And all the while, Feldman’s curiosity grew. He gave a quick glance to Fairfax, but the billionaire was still huddled on the ground, covering his head. Good enough, he supposed.

Feldman cleared his throat. “Now that that’s out of the way, maybe you can… answer a few more of my questions?”

Alex groaned. “Right. _That_.”

“You did promise.”

“I did,” Alex said. She paused, as if to consider whether it was a promise worth keeping. But then she sighed and nodded her head. “Fine. Once we’re off this helicopter, I’ll answer whatever you want.”

She looked over at Feldman. “A promise is a promise.”


	9. Chapter 9

The protest — or depending on who you asked, the riot went on. The people had come out to make their voice heard. They marched and shouted and obstructed. The economy had crashed, and suddenly their livelihoods, their homes, and their families were all at stake.

And New York wasn't alone. All across the country, all across the world, people had woken to the news of a depression. When they tried to find out why, they heard three names repeated over and over: Peter Brabeck, Dan Hutchens and Fredrik Lindh.

The three billionaires whose crimes had been revealed over the course of three weeks. The three who had cheated their whole lives and now the world was set to pay for their crimes.

Of course, the people would scream, of course they would demand justice and ask for recompense. Do something, the people demanded. "Do something!" they shouted en masse outside the halls of Congress.

"We have to do something," said a senator.

"A stimulus plan," said another.

"A bailout," said a third.

The politicians huddled together, murmuring of funds and laws. They had locked themselves in a Congressional lounge, ornately decorated, it had grown smoky with sweat and worry. They had been there for ten hours already, but already they were at an impasse.

They did have a plan, a framework, but the devil was in the details. Companies were sinking, stock prices plummeting, but with the power of the taxpayers money, they could stop it. They would deliver to the corporations and institutions government-secured loans, generous tax incentives, and lucrative contracts. All of it would be a show of confidence that would hopefully save the economy.

On the “how” the politicians agreed. The real debate came from the question of “who?” Who would they give the money to? It could not be everyone, though the depression affected all. There would have to be a choice, a select few institutions chosen to survive. They would be the businesses that the country and the world simply could _not_ do without. Whether they had brought their woes upon themselves or whether it was fair or just did not enter the equation. The only question that mattered was: Who was too big to fail?

And while Congress squabbled, the world spun on.

Over a gleaming ocean, across borders, through forests and valleys and down cobbled and paved roads was the city of Zürich. In the heart of Switzerland, Zürich was a city out of a fairy tale. The houses were humble in height, but immaculate with red-thatched roofs and freshly painted walls. A river ran through the city, and on a sunny day, one could see the light dancing beneath the water.

It was here that the girl arrived.

The city saw many visitors, some for pleasure, many for business, but enough of either that a girl could slip in without being noticed.

Always without being noticed, that was how the girl operated and she had perfected her craft.

Her latest target was in a hotel just off the main street. A luxury service so exclusive there was not even a formal rating. If you had to ask at all, you weren’t the type allowed inside. Any riff-raff was kept out either by a stern word from the staff or by the forceful hands of private security.

The doors and exits were locked with keycards, cameras covered hallways and stairwells, and patrols were done around the clock. All this and generous accomodations for any of the clients’ own security details. An impeccable hotel with both comfort and safety covered, there was none better.

The girl had no problem sneaking in.

“Urgh…” groaned a man tied to a chair. It was becoming a familiar sight for the girl. Though in this case, the man was a little different from her usual targets.

The man was large, six foot tall with some girth to him especially around the middle, but his shoulders were broad and his hands were rough. He was young for a billionaire, only forty or so and he had full round cheeks and a gap between his front teeth that only made him look younger. All things considered, he wouldn’t have looked out of place on a football field.

“Ugh…” he groaned again and his head lolled to the side, his eyes beginning to flicker open. “What…”

He tried to rise and move his stiff limbs, but the silk threads around him were too tight. He jerked in his seat and shouted, “What the hell!”

The girl didn’t bat an eye as the man began to holler. He yelled for help, for his guards, for his cursed captors to show themselves. He yelled for the whole world to hear, but no one but the girl did.

The man’s hotel room wasn’t just a room. It was a suite with a bedroom, lounge and study as well. What was especially notable about the study was its padded walls and its sealed door. Perfect sound-proofing for any clandestine meetings the hotels clients might have. In this case, the study’s padded walls completely muffled any sound the man might make.

Nevertheless, the man shouted on, cursing, struggling, yelling whatever came to mind.

Eventually though, the strain was too much, and the man had to stop and rest. He was left panting in part because of the effort, but more because panic was beginning to creep in.

He turned his head round looking for something, anything, and it was then that the girl stepped into view from behind him.

The man flinched at the sight of her. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Wh… what the fuck is going on here?”

The girl stared at him. She had her mask on, the ant face with the black bulbous eyes and pincered mouth. The sight of it always made her targets recoil. Was it petty if she enjoyed that brief moment?

But the man’s shock was short-lived. He shook his head and drew up his nerve. “Whatever this is, you’re making a mistake.

“You can still make it out of this fine,” he said, “Cut me loose, let me go, and I’ll forget this ever happened.”

He had already started to bargain. It was an obvious lie, but then that hardly mattered.

“Do you hear me?” he said, anger creeping into his voice, “I’m giving you one last chance.”

The girl had heard enough. “Nathan Amsel,” she said.

He frowned at the sound of his name.

“I need you to answer something for me,” the girl said.

“What? What are you talking about?”

The girl stepped closer until she was right in front of him, forcing him to look up to her. Not something he had to do often.

“I want to know,” the girl spoke, quiet, “What is it all for?”

“What the _fuck_ are you talking about?”

The girl pressed on, “Why do you do the things that you do?”

Nathan Amsel ground his teeth together and growled, “You’re going to have to be a bit more specific.”

“Nathan Amsel,” the girl said, turning away. She began to walk around him, circling him. “One of the world’s youngest billionaires. But you didn’t just inherit your wealth. You came from ‘modest means’. Your father was a millionaire with just a small jewelry store chain to his name. You apprenticed under him for some time, but you had bigger plans. When you came of age, you set off to start your own business.”

The girl paused to stare at the man in the chair. He scowled, but he didn’t seem to have any objections so far.

Satisfied, she went on, “Your father gave you a _humble_ loan of ten million dollars and with that money you went to the Congo. A country in the midst of a civil war. There you met with John Kabeya, a local warlord trying to overthrow the country’s democratically elected government.”

“I don’t know wh— “

“You befriended Kabeya, got to know him and ultimately decided to fund his coup. You did this in spite of the fact that Kabeya used child soldiers and you did this knowing he took women to use them as sex slaves.” The girl stopped circling Amsel so that the two were face to face. “You gave Kabeya money because he promised you that in exchange, when he had control of the country, he would give you exclusive mining rights of the Congo’s diamond mines.”

Amsel glared back at the girl. “Are you done yet?”

The girl laughed. “No. If only I was.” She leaned in, bearing down on the man. “With the funds you provided, John Kabeya succeeds in overthrowing the government and he installs himself as ‘President’. He holds up his end of the bargain and then some. He not only gives you the mines, he gives you a workforce comprised of his former enemies. Political prisoners. And their families. Their _children_.”

“This is _ridiculous_ ,” snarled Amsel, “My business in the Congo is completely legal. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Yes,” the girl nodded, “completely legal. You got all your deals in before any international sanctions were put in place, and once they were you had your mining companies put through enough shell companies that tying them to you is impossible.” The girl started walking again, going around his back. “You’ve been very careful.”

Amsel looked for a moment as if he were going make a rebuttal, but then he blinked and looked to the girl with a realization. “Wait a minute. I know what this is.”

“Completely legal,” repeated the girl, ignoring him, “You run your mines by forcing the workers at gunpoint, you chain children by the ankles and send them down the deepest tunnels. Your men on your orders, have mutilated and murdered anyone who dares go against you or fails to meet your quotas. And yet you have nothing to confess and all this is legal because your war criminal friends who control the government say so.”

If hearing his sins aloud affected him, Amsel didn’t show it. Instead he barely seemed to be paying attention. He had had a greater revelation.

“You’re the one who’s been targeting billionaires,” he said.

The girl stopped. “Is that what people are saying?”

Amsel laughed. “I knew it! I was right.”

“Right about what?”

Amsel smiled a nasty smile. “That there’s a lunatic on the loose. Some hippie terrorists going around playing hero.”

Behind her mask, the girl frowned.

Amsel took her silence with glee. “What you think people wouldn’t notice the pattern? Three billionaires one after the other losing their minds and confessing to their so-called ‘crimes’?” He laughed again, the sound harsher and louder than before. “It was obvious, you idiot!”

The girl stared at him, not saying anything. It was an opening and Amsel pounced on it.

“Hahaha, this is just _hilarious_ ,” Amsel smiled, but there was nothing nice about it. “What are you? Twenty? Fifteen? I don’t know how a kid like you has gotten this far, but it’s obvious you don’t have a clue what you’re doing.”

He filled his chest with a deep breath and in a booming voice, roared, “YOU STARTED A DEPRESSION! You fucking moron. You _stupid little girl_. You have the balls to kidnap _me_ and then go on about how I’m such a ‘bad man’ and here you are, inciting a fucking economic disaster!

“In a week,” sneered Amsel “you’ll have killed more people than I _ever_ did.”

The girl perked up. “So you admit it.”

Amsel scowled. “ _What_?”

The girl had been still up to this point, not saying anything as Amsel yelled to his heart’s content, but now she was in his face again, focused in on him like a laser. “You admit you did kill those people. The miners, the innocents whose deaths you bankrolled. You admit you killed them.”

“No, that’s not—”

“You admitted it.”

“Now hold on! We were talking about the people _you_ are killing. You think starting a depression won’t have consequences, you th—“

“I didn’t start the depression,” the girl said, unflinching.

“Bullshit, you didn’t. What do you think is happening outside?”

“A depression, but not one I started.”

Amsel stared at her, uncomprehending.

“Whether I did anything or not, the depression was doomed to happen. It was set the moment the world began to rely on people like Peter Brabeck, a man who embodied greed. Or someone like Dan Hutchens, a con artist. Or Fredrik Lindh, a fraud. 

“I exposed their crimes. I brought them to justice. If the world isn’t capable of handling that, then the world needs to _change_.”

“You’re being childish,” spat Amsel, “This is reality. There are _consequences_.”

“Yes, and billionaires aren’t exempt from them. Should I have left them alone even though they’re monsters? Because it would have _consequences_? Because it would hurt _the economy_? I’m supposed to just leave them alone because they’re too _important_?”

Amsel clenched his jaw. He was starting to understand what sort of person he was dealing with. He knew he needed to say something. Anything. “People are going to die, you know. There’s probably people who’ve died already.”

That made the girl quiet and for a moment, Amsel thought he had gotten to her.

Then he heard her voice, and he knew he had said the wrong thing. “You protect yourself with the economy the same way a killer holds a gun to a hostage’s head. Nevermind that you’re already killing people, nevermind that in a few more decades you’ll lead the world to ruin, nevermind all that. If I stop you, then you’ll shoot your hostage and then suddenly, _I’m_ the one to blame.”

The girl looked at Amsel and he pulled away. He didn’t like where this conversation was going.

“ _Fine_ ,” she snarled, the word came out hard like pulling out a tooth. “I’ll take the blame if I have to. But whatever it takes, I’ll stop you.”

There was no more yelling from Amsel. Sweat was beginning to sprout along his back, creating a swamp between his shoulder blades. Despite his wealth and power, now he was just a man tied to a chair in front of a terrorist.

And there was no mistake that was what this girl was. A terrorist. A fanatic. He swallowed and found his voice, “You’re making a mistake.”

The girl stared at him, but she betrayed no emotion.

“People are starting to look for you. Dangerous people.” Amsel said, quiet, “But it’s not too late. You don’t have to do this.”

The girl put a hand over her mask, covering where her eyes would be.

“You can just… go home,” Amsel whispered. A note of desperation was beginning to creep in. “It… it doesn’t have to be this way.”

If she heard his pleas, the girl gave no sign of it. “Just answer me one thing.”

“Of course, anything.”

“Why?” asked the girl, taking her hand away so she could meet Amsel’s eyes. “Why do you do it? Hurting people, enslaving them, having them killed or paying their killers… how do you justify it?”

“I…” Amsel licked his lips and forced the words out, “I have a wife. Two kids. I… I just wanted to…” he trailed off as he saw the girl take a step back, her hands balled into fists.

“That’s right,” she said, bitterly, “You have a beautiful wife. Two children who love you. A nice home and the money to take care of all of them. You were a millionaire before you even went to the Congo. You had a blessed life and you’re _still_ a monster.”

“I… I…”

But Amsel had run out of things to say and the girl had run out of patience. She closed her eyes and the shadows of the room came alive. Black and brown shapes, wriggling and crawling from every nook and cranny. They poured out into the room, covered the walls and floors, and began to fill the air with a buzzing mass. Bugs of all shapes and sizes, from ants to wasps, they swarmed around Amsel.

He did what anyone else would have. He screamed. All bluster and bravado gone. Not even begging in his last moments. Only pure terror. He screamed and screamed until the bugs went down his throat and into his lungs.

Amsel jerked and convulsed in his chair, his eyes bulging from their sockets. The girl grimaced at the sound of it, but she opened her eyes and forced herself to watch.

She needed to do this. To save lives. To save the world.

The man’s face swelled and reddened. He thrashed madly as the last gasps of life left him.

This was necessary, the girl told herself as she watched the man die. It was necessary, but that didn’t make it any easier.


	10. Chapter 10

Blood on concrete soaked in, dried and turned brown. While blood on marble stayed slick and pooled together. And blood on a person — if they weren't still bleeding — blackened and crusted up like sand.

Aisha had learned a lot today, more than she ever wanted to know. She wandered the plaza in front of the Fairfax building, plodding footsteps leading her nowhere in particular. The plaza had been a place for businessmen to take a quick break, a place to sit, have a smoke or a snack. Now it looked like a war had been fought here with the blood and bodies scattered all around.

Aisha trudged on. There was a faint sting above her ear — a gash left open to the air. It wasn’t too deep or she was pretty sure it wasn’t. If it was, she’d be dead, right? Aisha didn’t quite remember when she had been hurt. Sometime in the chaos of the fleeing crowd, but now looking back it was all just a blur. The mad scramble, the pushing, the screaming, a thorny bramble of flailing limbs. Thankfully, Aisha had stayed standing throughout. She knew if she had gone under for even a moment...

Aisha closed her eyes. It had been a protest. Aisha's first. She had taken a stand. Finally done something meaningful.

She walked around a body. An older woman, white-haired, but still fit. Her blue blouse had turned red and she stared up at the sky with empty eyes.

It had been a massacre.

Aisha walked on in a daze. In the distance she could hear the faint wailing of sirens. Police or ambulances, some semblance of order. Were they coming here or going somewhere else in the city? Aisha didn’t know. She didn’t even know if they planned on helping the people here or locking them up.

Walking on in a daze, Aisha found herself at the foot of the Fairfax building. The destination to which they had all come here for.

The glass walls had collapsed all over. One from the thrown bricks, and all the others from the gunfire.

Aisha didn’t know why she stepped over the threshold, but she did. She went into the lobby, her sneakers sliding just a little on the marble floors. Under ordinary circumstances, Aisha would have never been let inside. Someone would have stopped her, questioned her and maybe even called a guard to escort her out.

There were no guards today, though. Only a makeshift barricade of office furniture.

Aisha walked closer, her feet almost moving on their own.

A glint of something on the floor caught her eye. For a moment, she thought it was a gold ring, but as she bent down to pick it up she saw it was too long and thin to put on a finger. A bullet casing.

Aisha looked up to the barricade and saw more casings leading up to it. They leaked out like a trail. Not just that, she was close enough to see that the barricade had been torn through. A hole pierced cleanly through desks and chairs and like a wound, a pool of blood collected at the edge.

Anyone with sense would have turned and gone for help, but for Aisha, sense and fear had been blasted out of her. Her head was a whirlpool of formless thoughts, barely coherent. The only thing that was clear was that Aisha _needed to know_.

She walked over to the barricade, and stepped into the hole.

Four bodies waited for her. Large men in suits left to lie in their own blood. Two were headless, one nearly was, and the last, the largest of them, had a face twisted in shock and rage. His mouth hung open with teeth bared and his eyes were wide and stark white.

Around the bodies were more bullet casings, half-sunk in the blood. And not far were the guns. Four of them, one to each man.

They were the shooters. They had to be.

Aisha kicked the dead body. She hadn't even thought about it, her foot had just lashed out on its own.

"Fucker," she spat.

She glared at the body, and the anger welled inside of her. Fucker. Bastard. Piece of shit. None of it did the monster justice. There was some satisfaction that he had died a painful death, though Aisha had no idea what gun could do this kind of damage. Maybe if he hadn’t died, he would’ve kept right on shooting. Whoever had killed him needed to be thanked, but just dying wasn’t enough of a punishment for the bastard.

Aisha kicked the corpse again, but it was weak. She needed to do something more. She could kick him all she wanted, but he was already dead.

Aisha bent down, and with only a brief second of hesitation, went into his pockets. It didn't take long to find a phone. Aisha clicked it on, but no luck, the thing was locked with a code. Still, it couldn’t hurt to keep. Aisha slipped the phone into her pocket and went back to searching the man. This time she came up with something a little more tangible: a security card with a name and title.

_Clark Redwood_  
_Head of Security_  
_Fairfax Holdings_

Clark Redwood. Head of security for Fairfax.

Aisha's mouth was dry. This was something. Something important or meaningful or whatever, she was sure of it.

A crunch of glass echoed through the lobby and Aisha whipped around. Peeking over the barrier, she could see a group of men had come into the lobby. Men in black suits, carrying metal briefcases.

They were clean, focused, with a mission on hand. They looked government. In other words, people Aisha did _not_ want to cross. At least not now.

Aisha pocketed the security card and started to leave, but then paused. She needed just one more thing.

Moving quickly, Aisha pulled out her own phone and used the camera to snap a few pictures. She hoped they wouldn't come out too blurry.

There was no time to check for sure, Aisha stuffed her phone away and went out through the hole in the barricade. In that moment, luck was on her side. The men in suits couldn't see her from the angle they were approaching and Aisha kept it that way. Keeping her head low and her toes light, Aisha ran in a crouch and slipped out the other end of the building.

Once she was out, Aisha broke into a run. She had something… important. Dangerous. The weight of that made Aisha run even harder.

Daylight was fading, a long day finally coming to an end, and the sunset painted a fiery glow over the skyline of Wall Street. Aisha kept on running and for once the streets of New York were empty. No cars, no people. It was startlingly quiet for what should have been the end of another busy workday.

Aisha ran and ran. She couldn't stop. She had come up with something that would make a difference. Not quite a goal, but a direction to move in. Aisha didn’t know how to use the things she learned, but she knew who would.

\---  
\---  
\---

Two cars waited on the airport tarmac. Black sedans with tinted windows and government plates. Four men in suits waited by them.

"Friends of yours?" Feldman asked as the helicopter touched down.

"Our escort," Alex said.

Across from her, the billionaire, Richard Fairfax shrank at the sound of her voice.

Like a cat, the motion only drew Alex's eye. She smiled at Fairfax. "I took the privilege of calling you a car, too. Wouldn’t want to leave you stranded."

Fairfax looked away and under his breath, almost petulant, muttered, "You can't be serious."

"Don't worry. They just need you for a little talk."

Fairfax paled. He had already experienced what Alex considered "a little talk", but there was no point in protesting. He knew he didn't have a choice in the matter.

They got off the helicopter, first Fairfax with a bowed head, then with some urging from Alex, the pilot and finally Alex and Feldman themselves.

The men in suits, every inch of them stern professionalism, took care of the rest. They led Fairfax and the pilot into a car with only a light guiding hand on the back. A gentle touch, but an unflinching one.

As the car door shut, Feldman turned to Alex. “Please tell me you’re not going to kill him.”

Alex barked out a laugh. “You’re hilarious, Feldman.”

Feldman stared at her humorlessly, waiting for an answer and she relented with a sigh.

“We’re not going to kill them. Just talk to them, like I said. Tell them they need to keep their mouths shut, pretend like they never saw me, or there’ll be consequences, yadda yadda, that sort of thing.”

Feldman made an unimpressed sound. He was sure there more to it than that, but there wasn’t much point in prying. He’d probably experience the process himself. “And what about outside the building? The shooting? Are you going to hold him accountable?”

Alex shrugged. “That’s up to the courts to decide, not me.”

“He killed a lot of people.”

“You don’t know if that was his decision. Maybe his guards downstairs just got jumpy.”

Feldman frowned. “You don’t believe that, do you?”

Alex gave a humorless smirk. “No.”

The idea that the bastard would get away with that… _massacre_ left a foul taste in Feldman’s mouth.

“Fairfax is a powerful man,” Feldman said, “He won’t be used to being bullied like this. If you don’t put him away, he’ll come back with a grudge.”

“If _I_ don’t put him away?” Alex raised an eyebrow at her partner. “What are you suggesting?”

Feldman didn’t meet her eye, and instead stared at the two suited men by the car. One was East Asian, milk-pale and as tall as Alex, while the other was shorter by half a head with charcoal black skin. Feldman wasn’t sure whether to call them government agents or not. They reeked of special forces, from their build to the way they held themselves. Loose, almost bored, but still ready to spring at a moment’s notice. They reminded Feldman of Alex.

“You’re more than just a PRT agent,” said Feldman.

Alex nodded and started walking to the car. “Yes, that’s true”—one of the suits stepped forward to open the door for her—”but I try not to make a big deal out of it.”

She stepped into the car and scooched over to the next seat.

A moment passed and when she saw Feldman wasn’t following, she leaned over and patted the seat. “Come on, let’s go. We still have a case.”

If Feldman said no, would she let him walk away? Or would the two meatheads decide to get physical? Stupid questions, they always entered Feldman’s mind. Helpful sometimes, useless now. There was no world where Feldman said no. 

Feldman got into the car, and the door clicked closed behind him. A moment later, and the car was moving, gliding down well-maintained roads, trees blurring past them. The inside of the car was spacious, the seating comfortable and clean, and a partition divided the back from the front ensuring their privacy.

“So,” Alex said as she started to stretch, pulling her elbows over her head, “this Annette Hebert. I’m thinking for our approach we—”

“Whatever you have planned, we’ll do it.”

Alex blinked and slowly let down her arms. “You don’t want to _hear_ the plan?”

“I don’t need to. I’m sure you’ve thought this through.”

“I have. I’m just surprised you don’t want to talk it over.”

Feldman turned to look at her. “I have other things I want to know.”

For a moment, there was no reply. Then, a huff of air as Alex blew out her cheeks. “Damn, you’re persistent.”

Sweat prickled along Feldman’s back, but he didn’t look away.

“So.” Alex heaved again with a sigh. “Where to begin.”

The woman seemed more troubled talking about herself than taking apart a squad of killers, but then that was the problem with Alex. Feldman never knew how much of it was an act. He had never seen someone so completely in control. Of themselves. Of others.

Even now, Feldman didn’t know why he wasn’t in that other car with Fairfax.

“What are you?” he asked.

Alex smirked, on the verge of making another joke, but as she saw his expression, her smile faded.

“I’m human,” Alex said, “I think.”

“You think?”

“All evidence suggests as much. I have human DNA, human innards, and even human parents.”

“So how can you…”

“Tank bullets? Punch through walls? I don’t know. I just can.”

Feldman frowned. “There has to be something.”

“If there is, I don’t know. I’ve always been different, but I wasn’t… superhuman until I was twenty-seven.”

“Twenty-seven?”

“On the day when I was twenty-seven years, seven months, and fifteen days old. I remember it perfectly.”

Feldman put a hand to his chin as he did the calculations. It was rude to guess a woman’s age, but Feldman was fine with being rude. “Twenty-seven years old… so you’ve had your power for what? At least five years?”

Alex laughed. “Try five-hundred.”

Feldman stared at her. “ _What_.”

She shook her head, still chuckling under her breath. Not as if it was a joke, but as if she knew how insane it sounded.

“I was born in Nueva Cádiz, a Spanish colony off the coast of what is now Venezuela.”

“A… colony?”

“In the year 1509.”


	11. Chapter 11

1509  
Nueva Cadiz, The New World

It was a quiet birth, the baby wheezing when it should have been wailing. The midwife regarded the child with a frown. It was a runt, wrinkled and small like a shrunken old man. It wouldn't live to see the morning, the midwife was sure of it.

She started to say as much until the mother grabbed onto her wrist. The woman hardly looked as though she had just given birth, more as if she had just gotten done with dinner. Only a light sheen of sweat shone on her brow and without a word, she pulled her child from the midwife's arms.

If she realized how weak and sickly the child was, she didn’t care. She bent her head over the child and kissed its brow.

"Gloria a Dios," breathed the mother. The words were difficult on her tongue, like clothes that didn’t quite fit, but she said it again anyways, “Gloria a Dios.”

She had given up everything to speak those words. She kissed her child once more, and it began to stir, a faint cry rising up. It was a girl.

Tears welled at the mother’s eyes as she smiled. “Gloria a Dios.” She had given up everything for this.

\---

To everyone's surprise but the mother's the baby, lived past sunrise. Past the day and night as well. Past a week and then a month and then a year.

Against all odds the baby survived. She would cough until she was red, she would spit out her mother's milk as if it was rancid, and she would burn with fever many a night, but never did the baby die.

It was the grace of God, determined the mother. She prayed over her child every night, often bringing the babe to the church altar, pleading again and again with the priest to bless the child.

Some praised the woman for her devotion, others called it overcompensation. Just another native that so desperately wanted to prove herself. A useful trait most of the time, but an annoying one otherwise.

The father didn’t think much of it. He didn’t spend much time in Nueva Cadiz. He hadn’t even been there when she was born. He had more important matters on his mind: matters of war, of tactics and logistics. He didn’t have time for a child half-dead when there was a whole new world to conquer.

\---

When the girl was five years old, her father knew he couldn’t ignore her any longer. The girl was like a rodent, picking at scraps, barely existing, but somehow hanging on. That wasn’t to say the girl was hardy. No, if only the father was so lucky. When most other children were out and playing, or helping their mother around the house, the girl was either in bed, feverish, or underfoot in a daze.

Both slow and weak. A truly useless girl.

The father’s last campaign into the mainland had ended and after years, he would be free to enjoy the spoils of war. He would be home more often now and soon, the girl would have siblings. He only hoped they wouldn’t turn out like her.

\---

The girl loved having brothers and sisters.

They were cute, they were small, and they always needed her help.

She fed them patiently, she held their hands as they walked, she was always happy to watch over them. More than anything else, the girl loved finally having something to do.

\---

To everyone’s surprise — even the girl’s — she lived to be sixteen. She had gotten no stronger. If anything, she had weakened. She was spending more and more days trapped in her bed, unable to move from the shakes and waves of dizziness that would overcome her.

Her brothers and sisters, now starting to come of age on their own, didn’t need her help anymore. Now it was her everyone else cared for.

It was all she could manage to just smile and say thank you. Smile and smile. She had to smile, even if all she wanted to do was scream because the girl knew if she was anything less than a sweet angel, she would be nothing more than a burden.

\---

The girl had no suitors. The father had done his best searching for a family which he could foist the parasite onto, but with no luck. For a family of any standing, the dowry was too high, and even for a family with nothing to their name, all they needed was one look at the girl to see she was too weak to raise a family.

How could anyone expect her to do any work when she was in bed all day? How could anyone hope to have children with her when she could barely walk?

Hopeless. Useless.

The father’s patience was running out.

\---

The girl’s siblings left one by one. The boys off to follow in their father’s footsteps. The girls set to marry their peers. It was not long until it was just the girl and her mother and her father.

“Maleza” was what the father had taken to calling her. Undergrowth, like a weed that wormed its way through the cracks. He whispered the name under his breath at first, but as the years went on, he began to care less and less, until eventually it was the only name the girl heard.

The mother threw a fit when she heard the name the first time. And then again when she heard it the second, and third and fourth. But by the hundredth time, the mother found herself beginning to silently agree.

Was this girl — this _maleza_ really going to be like this forever? In bed, too weak to move, barely able to bring herself to eat some days. The mother wasn’t getting any younger, and while they could hire help, soon the parents would be needing it themselves.

Years ago, the mother had given everything to have the girl, but she began to ask herself, how much more did she have to give? 

\---

1537

When the girl was twenty-seven years, nine months and four days old, on a day of no significance other than the weather was pleasant, her father came and gave her a choice: leave on her own or be thrown out by force.

The past week, the girl’s health had improved just enough for her to be walking on her own. She had thought she might like to go and see the sea — that was before her father’s message of course.

Faced with the ultimatum, the girl sought her mother, but the woman was nowhere to be found. She had taken refuge in the church, hiding herself away, too ashamed to even say goodbye.

There was no one else for the girl to turn to. No friends, no more family. There was no one who would want to care for the always-ill girl.

She went to her room for the last time, collapsed in her bed and cried. Not wailing or moaning — even that was too much energy for her to spend — just breathless sobs, muffled by her pillow. Clutching at her bedsheets, tears staining her cheeks, the girl cursed her father, her mother, her family, and everyone in the world and even God himself.

What had she done to deserve this? From the day the girl had been born she had been wracked with pain, stabbed from the inside for every step she took, tortured for even breathing too quickly. Why was she even alive?

On and on went the girl’s thoughts, a spiral of misery. She shuddered as she breathed, unable to control her own body. It was so much at once she didn’t even realize that she was shaking from more than just her sobs.

The ground itself was moving. A tremor passed through all of Nueva Cadiz, it made the dinnerware rattle and the citizens stumble. It was an earthquake. Mild as far as these things went, but then Nueva Cadiz had only felt the aftershocks.

The real earthquake was offshore. A hundred miles away and below the little island colony. In the middle of the ocean, tectonic plates crashed and shifted, uncontrolled, unpredictable, as natural as the wind blows. The earthly movement reverberated through the ocean, pushing through the water until it burst through the surface, pulling the water up as high as the birds flew. The water held there for a second, a tower of blue, and then all at once, collapsed.

A wave began to form, rolling higher and higher.

One wave became two and two became a hundred, each rippling out from the point of impact. They rose up, massive.

A tsunami.

\---

Nueva Cadiz was founded in the year 1498 as a naval base for the Spanish conquistadors. It was not until the year 1502 that it developed enough to be a city in its own right.

At its peak it had a population of two thousand, primarily natives.

In the year 1537, the city was destroyed by a tsunami.

The calamity went unnoticed for a number of days until a merchant vessel from Spain arrived. The extent of the destruction was described “as if God had taken his thumb and smudged the city away.”

The ship landed on the outskirts of the ruins to search for survivors, though there was not much hope. They spent the better part of a day combing through the ruins, finding nothing more than rubble.

It was not until they were ready to leave, that a sailor finally found someone among the ruins.

A woman sitting huddled in the stony remains of a home. She had not answered any calls, and only noticed the sailors when they drew close enough to touch her. She was dirty, dazed, and wearing rags, but without a single scratch on her.

\---  
\---  
\---

1574  
Spain

There was supposed to be a celebration at the Alatorre Manor. A birthday.

And yet a heavy air hung over the estate. The servants shuffled in the shadows, keen to keep out of sight and the kitchen was quiet with little to do. Invitations had been sent out weeks before and when no replies came, another round followed it. Still not a letter back.

No one was coming.

They didn't dare go near Alatorre Manor — especially not for the birthday of a _witch_.

\---

At first people only whispered of the Lady of Alatorre Manor. How she wandered the mansion, aimless without her husband.

And then they began to talk. How she stalked the halls, how the servants scurried to avoid her lest they incur her wrath.

And then the words began to take on a life of their own. The Lady of Alatorre Manor — the Witch — had murdered her husband. Bewitched him with her charms, twisted him to her will and then when she had had her fun, drained him of his life.

Dark sorcery, demonic pacts, or blood-sucking, the methods often differed in the tales, but of one thing they all agreed: the Lady of Alatorre Manor's beauty was unmatched. Enough to put any maiden on her wedding day to shame.

And yet only last week, Alatorre Manor had celebrated the Lady’s 64th birthday.

\---

The Inquisition did not bother itself with superstition. Witches and vampires were the stuff of stories, tales commonfolk shared by the fireside once they had too many drinks. The Inquisition's concerns were of the material world. The blasphemous, the heretics, the unbelievers. The Inquisition had better things to do than investigate some silly stories of witches.

But the rumors of Alatorre Manor grew and grew until the whispers began to come from powerful voices, ones that could not simply be brushed aside or ignored.

With some degree of reluctance and with only the expectation of disturbing an old woman, a team of inquisitors were dispatched to investigate the claims of "witchery" on Alatorre Manor.

\---

Only a single inquisitor returned from the expedition. He was unconscious, atop a horse frothing at the mouth, the beast driven mad from riding all night.

When they woke the inquisitor, he spoke of a demon in women’s skin. A monster. A devil. He repeated it mindlessly, eyes glassy, unresponsive to any further questions. With no hope of answers from the man, a follow-up investigation was sent out by the church — this one better armed.

What they found at Alatorre Manor only prompted more questions. The entire mansion had been demolished, collapsed as if it had been struck by an earthquake and yet scattered across the estate was rubble, cratering the ground like impacts from a cannon.

One such crater was filled not with stone wreckage, but with red and pink pulp -- flesh turned inside and out, pulverized into an unrecognizable mess. The only hint that the mass had once been human was the red cloth of an inquisitor's robe hanging loosely off it.

The order the Inquisition was swift: Burn it all.

Every stone smashed to dust, every scrap of wood set aflame, the entire estate uprooted and mulched. Any mention of Alatorre Manor was to be purged from the records. The inquisitors were sworn to secrecy and any further rumors of the Lady of Alatorre Manor would be branded as heresy.

Which left only one loose end, the lone survivor of the first expedition. He would be locked away, declared "possessed by demonic forces" and put through an exorcism process that he would not survive.

And so, the Witch of Alatorre Manor would be forgotten.

\---  
\---  
\---

1602  
Egypt

The ruins were in the middle of the city. The sun-baked stone columns rose up without a roof to hold, and cracked stairs, half shorn, led nowhere. They had been weathered smooth by wind and sand, and had a warm clay color to them.

The stone was ancient, but if the people of the city held it in any special regard, they didn't show it. They simply wandered in and through as they pleased, as if the ruins were just a park. Some would buy bread from a cart nearby and bring it over to eat on the cracked steps while others took up spots on the ground to hawk their own wares.

It was not what the woman had been looking for.

She walked to the stone steps and took them one at a time. She had to pull at the front of her dress to keep it from dragging, a tan chador that covered her from head to toe, leaving only her hands and face free. Modest clothes, humble. No one would recognize her in them — if there was even anyone left to remember her.

She had traveled for a long time to get here. Not on a direct path, not always certain if this was even where she wanted to go, but then where else could she go?

She reached the top of the stairs where it cut off into the air. Beneath her was rubble, too much of a mess for even the locals and farther out was the rest of the city, not a single building rising higher than the remains of the one she stood in.

These ruins had been a library once. The Great Library of Alexandria. For centuries the Library had collected thousands of scrolls and books, all manner of knowledge from all four corners of the world. A monument to discovery, science, art, and every other worthwhile human pursuit.

And now the woman stood over its ruins with not a scrap of paper in sight.

She knew the Library had been destroyed centuries before. First underfunded by neglectful kings, later sabotaged by rivals and then finally, burned in war. The Library had been gone for longer than it had existed, but still, the woman had expected... _something_.

In her wildest dreams, she had hoped for answers, but those were only dreams.

The woman would be a hundred years old soon and she hadn't aged a day since Nueva Cadiz. She knew she should be dead. Crushed in the tsunami or in the dungeons of the inquisition or any of the hundreds of times she had been on the wrong end of a blade during her travels.

The woman looked down from the edge of the broken stairs. The ruins only rose three stories up. Falling from this height, a normal person would break their leg at least, maybe even die if they landed the wrong way. But for the woman — the one who was anything but normal, the drop wouldn't even scratch her.

She was impossible to harm, immensely strong and everything she saw or heard or felt, she remembered perfectly.

In other words, she was everything the Library had needed to be.

The woman laughed, a short sound with a toss of her head. She had found an answer after all. Not one she expected or even wanted, but it was something and that was enough.

She turned away from the ruins and walked down the steps. As far as names went, Alexandria wasn’t bad.

\---  
\---  
\---

1644  
China

Fire was always a sight to behold. Whether it was in the stove bringing a kettle to boil or whether the fire was out the window, sprouting all over the city, the red and orange dancing around buildings like autumn leaves in the breeze.

The inn had an excellent view of the city siege. Hard not to when it was in the middle of it.

Another building caught fire, the flames creeping up along the walls like vines until they burst into fiery red flowers. This time, it was close enough that Alexandria could hear a chorus of screams follow after it.

The rebels would be atop the inn soon. Liberators they had called themselves outside the city walls, but now that they were inside the only things they were liberating were heads from shoulders.

The kettle let out a whistle, just as another scream rang out. Alexandria moved the kettle off the stove and the whistle petered out. The scream didn't.

Closer now.

Alexandria gave the kettle a second to cool before filling her cup.

There was a crash, wood cracking and splintering and another set of screams followed it. This time, it came from inside the inn. Alexandria could easily remember the innkeepers. A plump family, husband, wife and daughter.

Alexandria picked the cup up, blew twice, and took a sip.

Voices came from below, muffled. Panicked shouting on one end, playful glee on the other. Alexandria had heard it a hundred times before in a dozen other languages, and it never changed much. One man with a sword and the other without.

It was not for Alexandria to interfere. She knew already what she could do, and she knew already how little it would solve. She drank from her tea, ignoring the bitterness.

"P-please," begged the innkeeper, his voice cracking with desperation, "j-just leave my family alone."

What good would helping this one family do? The rebellion was not unwarranted. The emperor's policies were unfair, unjust, and most of all, cruel to the peasant folk on the fringes of the empire. This was their retribution.

And the innkeeper's family. Were they not the beneficiaries of these cruel policies? Their heritage and their connections allowing them the privilege of owning an inn in the heart of the capital. Did they weep when the peasants starved?

"Please…"

Alexandria set the cup down. She didn't sigh. Not anymore. The tea would have to wait.

She remembered the voices, the innkeeper's warbling and panicked, and the rebels, weathered and scratchy. She remembered just how the wood would warp the sound so that she could pick out where they came from. In the corner, the family huddled together and slowly approaching them, clearly enjoying the moment, at least two rebels.

Alexandria stepped once to the right, and once forward, and then raised her fist over her head.

Down came the fist, and down went Alexandria through the wood floor and over the heads of a pack of rebel soldiers.

She only needed a glance to imprint each of them in her mind. Five men, their blades wet with blood.

Alexandria landed squarely atop one of the rebels and with just a slight push down, _flattened_ him. Where once a seasoned solider stood was now only pulp smeared on the floor.

For a moment, it was all anyone could do, but gawk at the dark-skinned woman who had just descended from the heavens.

"Wh— " started a rebel's shocked cry, before Alexandria knocked his jaw off and his voice turned into something else entirely: a gurgling screech, not even human.

Alexandria didn't let him suffer long. She struck him with the flat of her palm and launched him into one of his fellows and together the two blew through a wall and out of sight.

Two rebels remained. One turned to run, while the other gave a battlecry and swung his sword for Alexandria's head.

She ducked the blade, and swept his legs out from under him — literally. For a moment, the man was too wrapped up in the heat of battle to even realize he was missing everything from the knees down. Then he began to fall and he screamed.

Alexandria caught his sword arm before he collapsed. She gave it a twist and off came the wrist. With a flip of her hand, she had the sword turned around and she threw it at the rebel who had run away. The sword pierced clean through his chest and carried him forward until it pinned him to a wall where he hung limp like a scroll.

The dismembered man finally hit the ground, still alive, but with only one limb whole.

"Ah… ah…" he grunted, incoherent, his eyes were stark white and wide. He stared up at Alexandria, his lip trembling.

She didn't spare him a glance, only put a foot down on his throat until she heard it snap.

There wasn't any satisfaction to it. No sense of justice. Not when it was this _easy_.

Alexandria looked over her shoulder. The innkeeper was huddled with his wife over their daughter, and all three flinched as Alexandria's eye swept over them.

"D-don't hurt us!" cried the woman.

Alexandria huffed a laugh and turned away. She didn’t normally leave witnesses alive when she lashed out, but killing the innkeeper and his family would defeat the purpose. Still, she saw no need to explain herself. She had said it all before and heard it all already. Better if the innkeeper and his family thought of her as an angel or a demon.

It didn’t matter. This was nothing more than a whim.

Alexandria walked out the inn, going through the door even though the walls had been blown open.

The city still burned. The screams still rang out. Bands of soldiers moved from house to house, laughing, drinking, waving swords and hauling women over their shoulders.

Perhaps she made a mistake. Any little interference by her hand tended to have unforeseen consequences. She was used to it by now.

A gang of soldiers turned a corner and spotted Alexandria. They hooted and hollered, eager for another victim.

Alexandria laughed to herself again. What was done was done. She turned to face the rebels, fists clenched.

She might as well finish the job now.

\---  
\---  
\---

1730  
Cochabamba, The Spanish Territories

The city was not quite home, but it was close. It had been two hundred years since Alexandria had seen so many people with faces like her own. Throughout the market square were mestizos, creoles, Spaniards and even full-blood Indians, buying and selling, and going about their business. It was a scene that had played out a million times before across the globe, but for once, Alexandria wasn't immediately marked as an outsider.

It was an odd feeling. Not having people gawk at her. She was dressed modestly, though not so much as to be mistaken for a peasant: a dress with a colorful blue floral pattern and embroidery draped across her shoulders. The dress of a tradesman's wife or a merchant's. Someone not flush with power, but comfortable with money. And that was enough to draw the eye of a few merchants.

"Bonita!" they called her.

"Would you like a hat? Something to cover your skin from this harsh sun!"

"Perhaps the miss would like a dress? A beautiful dress for a beautiful woman!"

"A sophisticated woman must have jewelry, no? I have the finest silver in the city! Rings, necklaces, only say the word and I will bring it to you!"

Alexandria only smiled and shook her head. Merchants were always the same, no matter where or when. Truth be told, it was comforting to see. Something familiar. The techniques changed, and maybe the ones here were more pushy then the ones over there, but at their heart, they were all getting at the same thing.

Alexandria wandered on, just absorbing the atmosphere. The voices of the crowd fighting for prices and goods evened out, fading into each other until there was nothing but a murmur. A babbling brook, each voice like a drop of water falling on the rocks.

As she navigated the crowd though, she saw one merchant sitting idly before his goods. An old man, skin darkened and hardened like bark. He didn't even have a table to sell his things, only a patterned blanket spread over the dusty cobblestone. On it, were little statues carved from wood, just a shade lighter than his skin. The statues were of creatures, but it was hard to say what exactly. One statue was of a beast with a snout half as long as its body; it sat hunched over itself, the snout drooping between its knees.

Alexandria drew closer. The little wooden sculptures were small enough to fit in her hand, and yet the details were impeccable. Curves contoured and smoothed to a marble-consistency, and fine edges honed like blades. There was a bird statue, with clawed feet and a flat beak. Its wings were massive, but they were pulled in like a cloak. Looking closer, Alexandria could make out the feathering in the etched lines.

She knelt before the old man and picked up the winged statue.

"How much for one?" she asked.

The old man had barely moved an inch as she approached, the rise and fall of his breathing not enough to even lift the ragged shirt hanging off his shoulders. Alexandria might have thought he was dead were it not for those eyes. Black pits surrounded by white, and skin almost dark enough to match. Those eyes stayed trained on Alexandria even as she held out the statue.

"I'd like to buy it," she said, a little louder. "How much?"

The man's stare broke and he looked down at the ground. His lips parted open, but the words that came out were in no language that Alexandria knew.

A native language no doubt, but not any strain she knew. These lands had once belonged to the Incan empire, but the Incans weren’t just one group. They were comprised of hundreds of different tribes with their own languages and customs. 

Alexandria plumbed her memories of native languages. Were there any similarities she could identify? Any roots she could derive meaning from?

Her mind worked in a flash — and came up with nothing.

Grimacing, Alexandria pulled out her purse and held up a silver coin. The old man glanced at it, showing no more awareness then if she had pulled out a leaf. Alexandria scowled, but continued on undeterred. She picked up the bird statuette and made of show of pulling it toward herself while she simultaneously handing the coin forward.

The old man only stared.

She might have taken him for a blind man if his eyes didn’t follow her every move.

She gave one more show of charades before giving up. Maybe the old man was having a laugh at her expense. Maybe he was slow in the head. Either way, Alexandria had made the effort.

She set the coin down on the old man’s rug right in the spot where she had taken the bird statuette from, then she made a show of putting the statuette into the same purse she had taken the coin from.

The old man looked down at the coin then back up at her. If he approved or not, he gave no sign of it on his face.

Alexandria grit her teeth and stood, ready to leave.

“What a waste,” said a voice in Spanish.

Alexandria stopped. It wasn’t the old man who spoke. In fact she could remember the voice, she had heard it in passing just before.

One of the other merchants had come over. A young man with a square jaw. When he smiled, there was a flash of silver where his two front teeth should have been. He was the merchant that had offered his jewelry to her before, though this time he bore no trinkets.

He gestured to the old man with a chuckle. “I’m afraid to say, you’re wasting your coin, miss.”

Alexandria arched an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

He held his hands up innocently. “Nothing bad by it. Just stating facts.”

“Then explain.”

His smile fell away, hiding the silver teeth. “Well, I suppose you wouldn’t know. You’re new here, aren’t you?”

She didn’t answer, only stared and waited.

“It’s the taxes, miss. The Indians, they suffer the most out of all of us. Those stinkin’ Spaniard bastards at the top think they’re better than the rest of us. Any sale an Indian makes in town is taxed to hell. Any coin they might’ve made is drained dry.”

Alexandria scowled. It was nothing new, then. “What are they doing about it then?”

“Who? The Spaniards?”

“The Indians.”

“Oh. Well, not much, miss. They manage just fine. They’re not suited to city-living, you know.” He shrugged as if this was just a fact of life. “And the ones that want to try anyways, well they deal with people like us.”

“Us?”

The silver-toothed man smiled again and leaned in to whisper. “Us. You and me, mestizos. We have Indian and Spaniard blood both.”

Alexandria didn’t share his smile.

The man didn’t notice. “We trade with the Indians. Under the table of course, where the taxes can’t get to us. Then we turn around and we sell it to the city.”

“And you do this just out of the goodness of your heart?”

The merchant chuckled. “Well, we have to make a living, too. Convenience fees and all that. This way, both mestizo and Indian can profit.”

Alexandria huffed a laugh and under her breath muttered, “That’s shit.”

“Huh?”

“What about him, then?” Alexandria said, gesturing to the old man. “Is he selling his carvings or not?”

The silver flashed again as the merchant laughed. “Him? No, no, he’s not selling. He’s just an old fool who hands his things away. Like I said, your coin is wasted on him.” The merchant shrugged. “He doesn’t want it and even if he did, it’d disappear in some fat creole bastard’s pocket.”

The silver merchant began to go on about other, better wood carvers, but Alexandria ignored him. Instead she studied the old Indian. He sat, staring with only mild recognition that anyone was before him. She saw the lines in his weathered face, the hollow of his eyes where they sank into his skull. He was thin. Wiry. She could see the decades of hardship his body had endured, the days without enough food, the weeks without a roof over his head. And yet he had survived. 

But for what?

He was a broken man, on the edge of death’s door. He would die with nothing to show for it but...

Alexandria’s eyes fell down to the statuette in her hand. The bird.

For the first time in centuries, Alexandria thought of her mother. Alexandria didn’t even know what tribe the woman came from. In all likelihood, they had been wiped out decades ago.

There was no sadness in that.

Why would there be?

They weren’t her people. Not her mother, the Indians, the Spaniards, the mestizos or anyone — none of them.

Alexandria gave the bird statue one more glance before huffing another laugh and tossing it away.

Without another word, or even a glance to the side, Alexandria walked away. The silver merchant called out to her, but she ignored him. There was nothing for her here.

She chartered the first horse she could find and shortly after, left the city.

If Alexandria was to have anything, then she would have to make it herself.

She headed north.

\---  
\---  
\---

1814  
Baltimore, United States

It was hard not to think of fireworks. The pop and bangs, sparks flying in the air and explosions that lit up the sky. Easier to think of fireworks than guns and bombs going off, tearing through man and limb.

From the safety of the manor, positioned on the far side of the city, as far as one could get from the fighting while still being present, it was easy to hold onto the illusion.

It was only fireworks, William Madison told himself. He sipped from a glass of scotch, watching the distant battle from the balcony. The most important fireworks show in the history of his young country.

The heat was beginning to get to William. He took another drink before pulling off his white wig and loosening his collar. Damn stuffy things, but they were as much his uniform as a soldier's. Over the past two years, William had rallied the people, mediated the squabbles of his peers and reached out to whatever allies there might be. He had cashed in favors, made deals and bargained for whatever edge he could. Everything in his power he could do, he had done and yet it hardly felt like enough. Now William had no choice but to leave the fate of the nation in the hands of other men. From here on the sidelines, all he could do was pray.

He pulled the glass of scotch back, finishing it off.

"Good evening, Mr. President."

A sliver of fiery liquid went down the wrong pipe, and William heaved over with a fit of coughs.

"G-God! Blast it!" he spluttered through wet lips, "I-I said not to disturb me!"

"Apologies, Mr. President. It's an urgent matter."

Still coughing, William turned to face the voice. He didn't bother to hide his scowl. It was one of the maids. The dark one. Giant, too. Nearly six feet tall, more than enough to tower over William. No doubt there was some savage blood in her. Probably one of those Spaniard-mixes from down south. Certainly not the sort of help one normally kept at the White House, but then decorum never survived war time, least of all when the White House had been burned down only a few months ago.

Wiping his lips, William gestured for the maid to speak. "What's so important then?"

"The battle is lost, sir."

If William had another drink he would've spat it out. Instead, he swallowed and shook his head. "What are you talking about?"

"Just what I said, sir. The battle is lost. The militia you've assembled are spirited, but untrained. The British may be outnumbered, but they’ve brought the better soldiers and”—she gestured to the coast where flashes of cannonfire could be seen in the distance—“the bigger guns. You’ve already lost, you just don’t know it yet."

William could not help but look again to the battlefield. The fighting raged on and each time those British ships — massive three-decker warships — fired their guns, William could almost feel it in his bones. He tried not to think of the men who really did.

He grimaced. He couldn’t be shaken by this. Not when there were so many depending on him. He turned to glare at the maid. "I don't know what game you're playing at, but I am _not_ in the mood."

If the maid was intimidated, she didn’t show it, instead she smiled — an easy smile as if it was all a joke. “I don’t mean any harm, Mr. President. I’ve come to propose a deal.”

“A deal?” Immediately, William’s eyes narrowed. “Just who exactly are you?”

“You can call me Alexandria.”

He scowled. “I meant, who sent you? You’re no maid, that’s clear. Are you a spy from the Indians?”

She huffed a laugh and shook her head. “No, but I do represent a powerful entity. One that could win this battle for you,” said the woman, eerily calm, “and the whole war, even.”

William considered who else there could be. The Spanish? Would they switch sides? Or perhaps it was the pirate states of the West Indies? They were a potent enough force, but— 

A resounding boom jarred William’s thoughts. Another explosion. The cannons had reached the city, and a row of buildings toppled in the wake. A spattering of gunfire went off in response, louder than before, and a little more desperate if they could be such a thing.

The president swallowed. He ought to yell, call for help or strike at the strange intruder and knock her away. But he didn’t. No point in raising a fuss when the end of everything he held dear was already only a few miles away and drawing closer.

William looked at the woman once more and she returned his gaze unflinchingly. William had asked for help from every avenue he could — what was one more?

Resigned, with only the faintest hope that this would have any effect on anything, the president asked the woman, “What do you want, then?”

Her smile grew and she answered, “A partnership.”


	12. Chapter 12

Feldman stared at Alex. His mouth was hanging open. He probably looked like an idiot, but it was hard to care.

"You're case one," he said, breathless.

"Oh," Alex cut short of describing just how easily she had dismantled the British Navy. She turned to smirk at Feldman. "You finally made the connection?"

Feldman didn't hear the patronizing tone. Didn’t bother processing how she immediately seemed to know what he was talking about. He was used to it by this point. His thoughts were elsewhere, far, far away. Alex, the car, all of it seemed to fade, the hum of the road washing out everything else as Walter Feldman remembered his first few days as a PRT agent.

He had been fresh out of graduate school, still enamored with the very idea of the Paranormal Research Team. On his first day, he had been given a brief tour of the department and then left to "get familiar" with the office. They had probably meant to setup his computer or check out the office break room and introduce himself. Instead, Feldman had made a beeline for the department archives.

Unguarded and behind an unlocked door was the sum total of 200 years of the PRT's investigations. A massive warehouse-like room with rows and rows of filing cabinets, stuffed with papers with little in the way of organization. Feldman had lost himself digging through it all, reading every proclamation of ghosts and vampires and Big Foot with growing excitement.

It was far past the end of the day when Feldman found it.

Tucked away in a far corner was a moldy wardrobe — a relic from a time when filing cabinets didn't exist. It was filled to the brim with papers and buried at the bottom was the first case the PRT had ever investigated.

Unknown Woman 1.

A bare bones name for a bare bones file dating back to 1832. The ink was so faded and the paper so faint as to be see-through if you held it up to the light. The contents of the file itself were just as pitiful. The case file listed the woman's height, the color of her complexion, hair, eyes and almost as an afterthought "her resistance to all forms of harm." To accompany the single scrap of paper was a pair of washed-out photographs. The first showing the woman — Alex… Alexandria — dressed in a ballgown, sitting for the camera, a slight smile on her face. The second, showing Alex and two other men posing for the camera in front of a building, a commemoration of something. One of the men was the president of the time, Robert Jackson, the other was Henry Nieves, the founder of the PRT.

Or at least the one people talked about.

Feldman let out a long breath. He was back in the car, sitting only a foot away from an immortal, impervious woman. He looked over at Alex and said, more than asked, " _You_ founded the PRT, didn't you."

"I did," Alex said, "It was one of the first favors I asked for."

Feldman had already figured it out, but hearing her confirm it and so casually, too, shook him. Alex… Alexandria had been there since the beginning of the United States.

A sinking feeling grew in the pit of Feldman's stomach.

The immortal woman had enough say to get her own department. That had been nearly 200 years ago. What about now then? If she had that much sway, what else could she have had a hand in? Laws, policies, even wars—all of them trivial for someone like Alexandria to orchestrate. Feldman's mouth opened, but the words refused to come out. Just how much of the country was her? How much of the _world_?

As if reading his mind, Alex sighed. "It's not as big of deal as you think, Feldman."

He turned to stare at her. She might as well have said the sky was green.

"Look, I know what you're thinking and no, I am not some secret shadow queen behind the throne."

Feldman’s mouth closed. He tried to swallow, but it was dry. His tongue rubbed against the roof of his mouth like sandpaper. He couldn’t just believe her. It would be so much simpler if he could… stop. And smile. And just _believe_.

But he couldn’t. This was the conspiracy to end all conspiracies, and now that it had its hooks in his brain, the proof just beside him, he couldn’t shake it off.

“You don’t believe me,” Alex said, resigned.

“No,” he said, damning himself, “I don’t.”

“I expected as much.” She shrugged. “I don’t know what I can say to convince you, Feldman. I’m a private person and I mostly keep to myself. I don’t have the energy or the desire to rule over a classroom, much less a country.”

Feldman swallowed again, finding a little moisture this time. If he was going down this road, then he might as well go all the way.

“Let’s say I believe that,” he said, making it clear he didn’t. ”I bet when you ask for something, you don’t usually hear ‘no’.”

“I suppose that’s true, but I’m a reasonable woman. I ask for reasonable things and when I get what I want, I return the favor. Nothing underhanded about that.”

“What do you usually ask for then? Besides establishing government agencies?”

Alex rolled her eyes. “Founding the PRT was a one-time thing, a _necessity_ after I revealed who I was. I hardly forced their hand and I never ran the day-to-day operations. No, what I usually ask for are little things. Give this doctor a visa or allocate some of those F-15 funds to a research grant or make sure this one film I really like gets inducted into the Library of Congress.”

Alex spread her hands peaceably. “Nothing sinister. Nothing greedy or evil. There’s no need for me to be self-serving, when all my needs are already served.”

“You don’t have any wants?”

“Why should I?”

“You have all this power… and I don’t just mean the superpowers… all that power, enough to shape the course of the world… and you’ve never abused it?”

“To what end? I’m not a lunatic, Feldman. I’m happy to watch from the shadows. Maybe a nudge here, a push there, stop a nuclear apocalypse or two, just little things that people wouldn’t notice.”

Feldman’s mouth opened almost automatically to ask about the averted nuclear apocalypses, but he stopped himself.

The last two hundred years. It seemed like a millennia's worth of time. How many wars had the country been in since then? There was the Civil War, World War I and II, Korean War, Cold War, Vietnam, Gulf War, Iraq… There were probably others that Feldman was forgetting, but real world history wasn’t exactly his specialty. How many had Alexandria participated in? If there were reports of an invincible woman punching through tanks, Feldman was pretty sure he would’ve heard about it. 

Feldman shook his head, he was getting sidetracked. If he let her lead the conversation then he was playing right into her hands. Feldman set his jaw. She had an answer for everything. She was even convincing about it, but that only made the rest of him more suspicious. Alex had come to the conversation prepared like she had done it a hundred times before.

There was a pause in Feldman’s thoughts.

If he was honest, though, that’s how she seemed all the time.

Feldman rubbed his head again, massaging a headache that was threatening to grow. He was going in circles, his mind working on overdrive, trying desperately to really grasp… Alexandria.

For her part, Alex didn’t seem to mind. She sat relaxed, legs crossed, watching him with only mild concern. Not as though she was worried he’d run off to tell the world, but rather that he’d hurt himself.

Another question slowly bubbled to the surface. Feldman pulled his hand away from his head and blurted out, “Why? Why are you telling me this? What can I give you that you can’t strong-arm the president into doing for you?”

Alex looked up, a smile playing on her lips. “You won’t like the answer.”

“Probably not. Tell me.”

“I like you, Feldman.”

He stared at her, waiting.

She smiled a little wider. “You’re smart, but more importantly, you’re _paranoid_.”

“This… is why you told me?”

Alex laughed. A real laugh, too. One that had her head tilting back, her hand covering half her face. “Yes! It’s true. You have a certain set of skills that I require. Intelligence. Paranoia. An obsessive eye to detail. You’re one step removed from a conspiracy nut, and that just so happens to be exactly what I need.”

Feldman blinked slowly.

“If it makes it easier for you to believe, I’ll tell you that I’m something of a collector.”

Obvious bait for a question, but Feldman obliged. “And what do you collect?”

Alex pointed at him. “People. People who are the best at what they do. Soldiers, spies, that sort of thing yes, but also lawyers, doctors, and”—she gestured to Feldman—”detectives. I want people who can make things _happen_.

“Despite my powers and abilities, I can’t be everywhere at once. And while yes, I could ‘strong-arm the president’, it’s not something I would really do. It’s too much exposure and for what? Go through the entire chain of command to have the president tell some stooge to find some flunkey to do the job I want? No, it’s inefficient, it’s interfering more than I want to, and the results are always mixed.”

She looked over at Feldman. “If I’m going to rely on someone, I at least want to be the one who picks them.”

Feldman stared flatly at her. “ _That_ is actually the most unbelievable thing I’ve heard all day.”

Alex laughed again.

“What if I don’t want to be in your collection?”

“It’s not an _actual_ collection, Feldman. I’m not going to put you in a plastic box.” She tapped the side of her head. “I just keep a mental list of people I can rely on.”

Feldman frowned. He had somehow found the motherlode of all conspiracies and yet according to Alexandria, it was completely innocuous. He still couldn’t believe it, not entirely, but after everything she had said, he couldn’t help but feel deflated.

Feldman slouched in his seat and looked out the window. Trees flashed by, the greenery blurring until they didn’t. The woods ended, and the view opened back up on New York City. The sun was setting in a cloudless sky painting the skyline in an orange glow. A postcard moment if Feldman had ever seen one. The skyscrapers towered above as majestic as ever, unblemished as if the largest protest in the city’s history hadn’t happened just today.

“Alright,” Feldman said, breathing it more than speaking it. “No more questions.”

“Well, I’m—”

“For now.”

Alex smiled. “Sure.”

There was still a job to do. One Annette Hebert to investigate. In truth, Feldman still had plenty more questions for Alex, but once again, he’d set them aside. Alex wanted him for this job, but more importantly, _Feldman_ wanted it. These were real paranormal events, the stuff he had been chasing after for years.

One right beside him, and one still out there. The very idea of it reignited a nervous energy in him. One paranormal human was an oddity, but two? That was the beginning of a trend.

\---

Zurich was a beautiful city; the girl couldn't help but notice it every time she stepped outside. Quaint homes by the riverside, all pastel colors like they had sprung from a fairy tale. They were still sizable enough, two floors at least, but their modesty that hearkened back to the "good old days" was more of a selling point than any deluxe garage in America. Every single one costed somewhere in the millions.

Beautiful, the girl wouldn't deny it, but she couldn't stay to appreciate it either. Not with a body left behind.

The girl had left no evidence. She was confident in that, ninety-nine percent at least. She had a million eyes on every surface and a bug for anything that might stick out. There were bugs to sweep up the hairs, bugs to collect skin flakes, bugs to clean prints of any kind, and of course, bugs to clean up after all the other bugs.

Namely, the ones in Nathan Amsel's esophagus. It had been a gruesome process to empty the corpse of bugs, but by leg and shell, she had done it. She had gotten it all. Ninety-nine percent certain.

That one percent weighed on her, though. Hard to shake off when there was so much to lose.

The girl had killed someone. It had always been part of the plan. Unwanted, but inevitable. She had killed someone.

People would notice. Questions would be asked, no matter how well she cleaned up after herself. Security would be raised, getting to her targets would be harder than ever because of course, it would. She had killed someone.

It needed to be done, she was certain of that. One-hundred percent.

The girl could afford no regrets. There were still many more on her list.


	13. Chapter 13

The phone was heavy in Aisha's pocket. Her jeans just a little to tight to hold it comfortably. The bastard had gotten the biggest, newest phone on the market and it scratched against her thigh with each step.

She should have kicked him a few more times when she had the chance.

Now, she was stuck walking. The trains weren't running, and the buses were like ghosts, passing by only when Aisha wasn't looking. The first time she caught a glimpse of one, she had ran after it, trying to wave it down, but the bus hadn't slowed for even a second. A second look, told her why. The buses were packed, people pressed up against the windows, faces squished. There was no way Aisha was getting a ride on one of those.

So, among a herd of leftovers, the stretched-out stragglers from the protest, she walked.

The “where” was a little more uncertain. Going home was out of the question. Not when she had a killer’s phone burning in a hole in her pocket. If her dad found it, he'd probably smash it without even hearing a word she said, call her a thief or some shit.

The Worker's Reform Movement's headquarters was another possibility, but it was all the way across the whole city in the Bronx. It'd take her the whole day to get there. She had never walked that far on foot. Besides, she had only been there once, and she wasn't even sure if she could remember how to get there.

Which left only one place. Tammy's place. The Easy Lounge.

The other members of the WFM might have the same idea as Aisha. A safe place, almost a hide out, close to where the protest had been and it was at least a place every in the WFM knew about. She hoped so at least.

Aisha took out her phone — _her_ phone — and checked for a signal. No bars to make any calls, but she was at least connected to the internet. She checked her messages to Tammy, hoping to see something new even though there hadn't been any notifications.

_where are you?_  
_where is everyone else?_  
_tammy_  
_msg me_  
_please_

The last two messages had been sent an hour after the others. And those an hour from now. Still no response. Still no sign Tammy had even seen them.

There wasn't anyone else Aisha could message. She hadn't gotten around to swapping phone numbers with the other WFM members. She hadn't even joined their fucking Socialbook group because who still used _that_.

Stupid. Aisha bit her lip. She had clicked to join an hour ago when she remembered it, but she still needed admin approval before she could actually _see_ anything. So fucking stupid. Why were they still using that crap?

Aisha looked back at her phone, but the screen hadn't changed. Still just her speaking to no one. She stared harder at the screen as if she could transmit her thoughts that way. Answer me, Tammy. Say something. Tell me you're okay. Tell me where you are.

The screen dimmed and a low-battery warning came up.

"Fuck," Aisha muttered under her breath and she stowed her phone.

She kept walking. She just needed to get to Tammy's place. She'd find her there.

\---

Tammy wasn't there.

Coming down the stairs to the bar, Aisha could see a few people from the protest. Familiar faces, part of the WFM, but not really anyone she knew. Certainly no Tammy.

A knot started to form in her stomach, one that grew tighter with each step she went down.

Misery loved company, and the people inside were deep in it. More than a few had a harrowed, vacant look, not really seeing anything. Aisha had been there herself not too long ago.

Couldn’t let herself sink back to that, though.

Aisha found the most present person in The Easy Lounge and walked up to him. He was a bald black man, five shades darker than her, and big but not like he went to the gym, more like he had spent years lifting things out of a truck. He was stripped down to an undershirt and black slacks and was fiddling with an old television set.

As she drew nearer, she could hear the news.

“ — site of where the riots had been at their worst, Linda. It’s not a pretty sight. There are still emergency services treating the injured. And if you look around, you can actually see there are still bloodstains on the concrete, Linda. It’s… it’s quite gruesome.”

The video was split between two prettied up reporters, the make-up making their whiteness almost glow under the camera lights. One was a woman sitting comfortably at her desk from the studio, and the other, a man looking slick and neat even as red and blue lights flashed behind him.

“How awful,” the woman said, leaning forward, concerned expression put on, “Do we know how many are hurt exactly?”

“Hard to say for certain, Linda. Medical services are trying to help as many as they can, but today’s riot was the largest the city’s seen. It could be hundreds. Maybe even thousands.”

Aisha’s jaw clenched. They were calling it a _riot_.

Linda’s concerned expression intensified, lip pouting a little more. “That’s terrible to hear, John. Do the police have any idea when things really started to get out of hand?”

“They do, Linda. Footage from local surveillance cameras and on-the-ground journalists has painted a pretty clear picture of what sparked this riot. We’ll be airing that footage as soon as we’re at liberty to do so, but I can share with you right now that the riot was started by several agitators in the protest. At least a dozen individuals, likely more.”

Aisha’s eyes were wide. What the fuck was this person saying.

“These individuals came prepared to start a fight. They were masked and carried bricks, molotov cocktails, and other improvised weapons. When the protest approached the Fairfax building, they attacked and tried to storm inside.”

“My god,” gasped Linda just as Aisha hissed, “Motherfucker.”

“The details from there are a little uncertain, Linda, but from what we understand, the attackers were repelled by a private security force. The attackers fled back into the crowd and started a stampede. The ensuing chaos is what caused the majority of the injuries today.”

A spike of pain shot through Aisha’s neck. Her jaw was clenched so tight, her teeth were on the verge of cracking.

“Turn that shit off,” she hissed.

The man at the TV turned to look at her, saw the smattering of dried blood on her head, but didn’t react. He turned back to the TV and said, “No can do. Gotta know what they’re saying.”

“It’s bullshit!”

“It’s believable bullshit.”

“ _What_? We were there! I was there! It’s a fucking lie!”

“Some of it, sure. They got the other parts right, though.”

“Not the part that mattered! It wasn’t a fucking riot, it was a fucking massacre!”

“Yeah, I know.”

Aisha glared at the man, but he wasn’t paying her any mind. His attention was back on the TV and the bullshit it was spewing.

Aisha had to stop this. She couldn’t let this be the story people heard.

“Where’s Mrs. Hebert?” she asked.

“What do you need with her?”

“I’ve got something she needs to see.”

For a moment, the man was silent. He didn’t turn to look at her, just kept watching the television.

“It’s important,” Aisha said.

The man didn’t look up, but after a pause, he answered, “Backroom.”

Aisha started to walk away, but stopped. “Do you know where Tammy is?”

This time, the man did turn. “Who’s Tammy?”

“Fuck!” Aisha stormed away. A few people gave her a look, but no more than that. She went around the bar and shoved her way into the lounge’s backroom.

Aisha got barely a glance from the people inside as she entered. The little break room was packed, but not with people. Laptops covered the coffee table in the center and phones covered everything else, half a couch, some of the floor. The electronics radiated out from four people, one woman was on the phone, talking in Spanish, while two men typed furiously on laptops. The fourth was Annette Hebert, she sat back on the corner of the couch, a bandaged hand holding an ice compress to the side of her head, while her one free hand slowly tapped messages out on her own phone.

Aisha stepped forward. Still, no one really looked at her. She could see one of the people on the laptops was uploading videos of the protest online, six sites at a time.

“What are you doing?” she asked the man.

He didn’t look up as he plugged in a phone to the laptop. “Uploading footage of the protest. Trying to get as much out there as possible.”

Aisha stared. That was it?

The man didn’t notice Aisha’s doubt. “We’ll get people to see what really happened. This’ll be what wakes them up.”

Aisha didn’t share his confidence. A few shaky phone videos might get some people talking, but they needed _more_.

Aisha walked over until she was directly in front of Mrs. Hebert. She pulled out the phone. “I have something you need to see.”

Mrs. Hebert didn’t look up. Instead one of the other people, the woman on the phone, covered it and whispered loudly, “Set it down on the floor, we’ll get to it when we can. Make sure y— ”

“No!” Aisha shouted.

That got their attention. Everyone looked up at her. Not scared, but wary. They had all been out at the protest, Aisha could see it in their eyes. They were on edge.

She finally had Mrs. Hebert’s attention. The woman hadn’t moved her head, but her eyes were trained on Aisha.

“What is it?” she asked.

Aisha held out the phone and after a moment’s stare Mrs. Hebert reached out and took it. She tried to unlock the screen, but couldn’t. It needed a 4-digit code. She looked up at Aisha, expectant.

“It’s not mine.” Aisha pulled out her own phone, and opened the picture of the dead man. She held it out for them to see. “It’s his. One of the shooters from the lobby.”

Mrs. Hebert didn’t flinch at the sight of the corpse, only frowned. “How do you know he was a shooter?”

“I went into the lobby. Found him by the guns. And he had this.” She reached into her pocket and took out his security card.

Mrs. Hebert took that, too. She examined it for a moment before handing it off to one of the men on the laptops. He only needed one look before he was typing away again, searching for any trace of the killer online.

“What killed him?” asked Mrs. Hebert.

“I don’t know. I just found him like that. Him and three others. Torn up.”

“Hm. Not ideal.”

“What? What do you mean? He _deserved_ it.”

“He did, but it’s a lot harder for people to hate a man who’s dead.”

“ _I_ hate him.”

“And so do I, but that’s not enough.”

Aisha clenched her fists and looked away. Was that it, then? The police only showing up in the aftermath, and the truth twisted. People were saying they had rioted, and all the WFM could do was put up videos online and pray to God that people cared enough to notice.

If that was all they had then they might as well give up. Aisha could hardly count all the times she had skipped over her friends trying to share videos about this or that protest. Even if one video did go viral, what did it accomplish? Some middle-management asshole losing his job? That was hardly enough for what happened today. _This_ , sitting here in a basement bar uploading videos was hardly enough.

As if she could read Aisha’s mind, Mrs. Hebert spoke up. “It’s not over yet.” She held up the shooter’s phone. “This is good. This’ll help. We have people that can get this open and we’ll find something on these bastards.”

Aisha didn’t say anything.

Mrs. Hebert stirred in her seat, moving for the first time so that she could sit up straight. She winced as she did, but she managed.

“What was your name?” she asked.

“Aisha.”

Mrs. Hebert leaned over and took Aisha’s hand. “Thank you, Aisha. You’ve done more than enough today. Get home to your parents. Be safe.”

Aisha jerked her hand away. “Do you know where Tammy is?”

Mrs. Hebert frowned, a small turn of the lips. “No, I don’t.”

“Do you even know _who_ she is?”

“I do.”

Aisha stared at her and the woman didn’t blink.

“I’m not leaving until I know she’s okay,” Aisha finally said.

Mrs. Hebert closed her eyes and sighed. She looked as though there were a million things she wanted to say, but instead she just said, “Okay.”

Aisha started to walk away until Mrs. Hebert called out to her.

“Aisha.”

She turned and scowled over her shoulder.

“Talk to the woman behind the bar. She has a first aid kit. She’ll look at that cut on your head.”

Aisha frowned and touched her head. The cut had already dried up. She had forgotten about it.

“If it’s serious, you _will_ go to a hospital.”

Aisha blew out her breath. “Whatever,” she grumbled as she pushed her way out of the backroom. Nonetheless she went over to the bar to get herself looked at.

Aisha couldn’t afford to be hurt. Not now when everything else was falling apart. The protest had been a disaster, but that was already old news by this point. What mattered now was what people did about it.

Next time — and there would be a next time — Aisha wouldn’t let herself be just another target. Aisha closed her fist, her knuckles stretching against skin as she pulled it tight. Next time, Aisha would fight back.


	14. Chapter 14

Two phone calls.

Alexandria needed only two phone calls to find Annette Hebert. Who she called, she didn't say and Feldman didn't ask.

He had his guesses, of course. NSA, Homeland Security, or maybe those people in her "collection." Feldman had digested that tidbit of information long ago, and no, it didn't sit well with him. Worse when he was supposed to be a part of it.

Whoever it was on the phone, Alexandria didn't waste time on pleasantries, though she wasn’t unpleasant. Cordial was the tone. There was no need for demands or orders or threats. She simply said "I need a favor" and it was done.

Two phone calls and Alexandria had the exact coordinates of Annette Hebert. A quick look online, and those coordinates soon had a name: The Easy Lounge.

\---

Aisha stared at the staircase.

Tammy still wasn’t back. Neither were her parents for that matter. Aisha didn’t know what to make of that, but the possibilities played out in her mind nonetheless.

Maybe Tammy had been shot. She had a way of freezing up at the worst times.

Or maybe someone had shoved her in the stampede. Pushed her down, trampled her underfoot. Some thoughtless selfish dickhead, happy to kill someone else to save his own skin.

Maybe she was still alive, but hurt. Left to lie there, too hurt to cry out, overlooked by those who were supposed to help her.

Tammy dying, and Aisha was sitting on her ass not doing a damn thing.

She rose from the barstool, stopped, chewed on her lip, and finally sat back down.

A routine she had gone through five times already. The waiting was killing Aisha.

Most of the other people from the protest had recovered enough to go home. The news was reporting the city had "quieted down." The streets were opening and even a few of the trains were running.

Things going back to normal. People bowing their heads, trying to forget everything that had happened.

It set Aisha's teeth on edge. How could they stay quiet? How could they not _do something_? Why weren't they _mad_?

The door rattled open and footsteps plodded down the stairs.

Aisha's head snapped up, but it wasn't Tammy.

Down the steps came four individuals, all of them in suits. They didn't look like protestors. They looked government.

A woman walked in front, her stride marking her untouchable. She was nearly six feet tall, with coffee-colored skin and a smile that belonged in a museum. _All_ of her would have had no trouble in fitting into a museum. It was almost disturbing to see her move, as if a sculpture had been given life.

Flanking her were two grizzled men. One Asian, the other black, both of the meathead variety.

And it was only because Aisha was looking for someone else that she saw the man trailing behind them, almost in their shadow. He was short and pasty white and the only color to him was his pale brown hair and the dark circles around his eyes. He looked like he spent far too much time behind a screen in the late hours. Where the woman was striking, he was plain, and where she smiled, confident, he frowned, eyes darting side-to-side.

The lounge was quiet. Only twenty or so people had stayed. All the ones who wouldn’t just run away, who still wanted to do something.

“Good evening,” the woman said to the room. “We’re Homeland Security and we’re looking for Annette Hebert. Has anyone here seen her?”

The room was silent.

Aisha had to give them props for it, but it wasn’t in her to just be quiet.

“Who the hell is that supposed to be!” she hollered from the bar.

The woman turned to look at her, smiling. Just the look of the woman was enough to send a chill down Aisha’s spine, but she didn’t turn away.

“And who’re you, young lady?” said the woman as she walked over.

“Fuck you, that’s who I am.”

The woman’s smile quirked a little at that and she slid onto the stool next to Aisha. “Hm. Nice to meet you. My name is Alexandria.”

“Okay sure, where’s your badge?”

Alexandria reached into her jacket and pulled a badge out. Aisha had only ever seen them in the movies. She had no idea if it was real or not. It did in fact, say Homeland Security and Alexandria.

“So, now that we have met,” Alexandria said with a smile, “I’d like to know where Annette Hebert is?”

Aisha scowled. “I said I don’t know who the fuck that is.”

“Mmmhmm,” nodded Alexandria. She glanced again over Aisha’s shoulder. “Is Mrs. Hebert in the bathroom?”

“Are you _deaf_ or something?”

Alexandria let out a small chuckle. “Okay, not the bathroom, then.” She pointed a finger. “How about that door, then? Is Mrs. Hebert in there?”

Aisha didn’t take the bait, didn’t even look. She already knew which door the fed was pointing to. It was the backroom. Baring her teeth, Aisha leaned forward, stabbing a finger against the bar to punctuate each word. “I. Don’t. Know. What. You’re. Talking. About.”

It was like talking to thin air. Alexandria smiled and spoke as if Aisha had said something completely different. “Thanks for the tip, kid.” She slid off the barstool.

Aisha scowled, but the fed was already walking away.

One of the bigger WFM members got up to stand between her and the door. “You need to leave. This is private property.”

The fed, Alexandria, didn’t slow a step. “You don’t want to get in my way.”

“I want to see a warran—”

Her hand launched forward, palm out. It caught the man in the chest and all the air in his lungs went out with a hiss. He crumpled like a rag, falling into a heap, fighting to get back his breath.

Aisha’s jaw dropped. There was nothing insane about what she saw. Nothing as shocking as the massacre today, but somehow this was more unbelievable. There was no hesitation to the woman, no wasted movement. She glided more than walked, untouchable, like she was from another plane of existence.

Alexandria got to the door and tried the knob, but found it locked. 

Aisha started to speak again, but the words didn't come out. The entire room had gone silent, as stunned as Aisha was.

Alexandria took a step back and then kicked the door open. Lock and knob went flying and the door nearly bounced off its hinges, only barely hanging on. No one made a sound as she stalked inside, the door loosely swinging shut behind her.

Aisha blinked, and it _hurt_. Her eyes had gone dry. It had all happened so fast.

She existed like that for a moment. An eternity. 

And then inch by inch, consciousness returned. As well as a realization. 

Aisha was doing _nothing_. _Again_. Mouthing off when she could, but when it counted: _nothing_.

It didn't matter that if she had stood up, she would have ended up just like that man asking for a warrant. All that mattered was that Aisha had done nothing.

And now the feds were going to take Mrs. Hebert away.

Slowly, knees wobbling, Aisha stood. She couldn't let it end like this. To be shot at, to lose her friend — maybe forever, and now to see the woman she admired taken away. Aisha couldn't let it end like this.

Aisha walked towards the backroom, her feet feeling as though they weighed a thousand tons.

The other feds, the trio of men standing by the stairs eyed her, but didn't block her way. They didn't say or do anything to stop her, just watched.

A tiny victory. It made the last few steps a little easier.

Aisha stood in front of the door. If she waited any longer, she'd run away.

Aisha reached for the door, but just as she did, it opened, pulling away from her fingertips.

The woman stood before her. Six-foot tall, immaculate in a suit, and a bored look to her. Alexandria had been her name. Aisha wasn’t likely to forget it.

Her eyes flicked down at Aisha for a brief instant and then away. As if Aisha didn’t even register.

The surge of rage was as sudden as it was pointless. Aisha swung her fist like a hammer, hoping to at least put a scratch on the woman's face, maybe make her nose bleed.

Alexandria didn't even look as she caught Aisha's wrist and with a twist, forced Aisha to her knees. Aisha let out a cry, a gasp more than anything, as her whole body tried to turn to keep her arm from breaking.

"Let's not do anything rash, now," Alexandria said. She wasn't speaking to Aisha.

The whole of the WFM had risen, blocking the way out. Twenty or so people. A few of them had their phones out, set to record. They must have had the same thought as Aisha, because none of them moved.

Alexandria sighed. She turned and spoke to someone behind her. "I'm _trying_ to be nice about this."

"Let me talk to them."

Alexandria let go of Aisha and stepped aside. Aisha took her hand back with a hiss between her teeth, rubbing at her sore wrist. She could already tell that it'd be bruised.

But that didn't hurt as much as seeing Mrs. Hebert in cuffs.

The leader of the WFM stepped forward, her hands held up as if to calm them down, but seeing the metal chain hanging in between them only made Aisha’s blood boil.

“Everyone,” Mrs. Hebert spoke, her voice coming in clear and strong, “I know this is going to be difficult. But _this_ is not the fight.”

Tense stares answered her back.

“This is not the first time I’ve been arrested,” Mrs. Hebert said with a small smile. “Probably won’t be the last. They’ll question me, they’ll grill me, but they don’t have any grounds to hold me for long. They _will_ let me go.” The conviction she put in those words was almost believable. Then she turned her gaze to Alexandria. “But right now, what they want is an _excuse_ — a reason for why they’d be justified in putting every one of us behind bars. Don’t give them that.

“We _will_ fight this. But not here, not now, not like this.”

Aisha grit her teeth and stood. “You can’t be serious.”

Mrs. Hebert gave her a sad look. A pitying one. “I am serious, Aisha. Trust me.”

“What are they even arresting you for!?”

“Criminal conspiracy,” answered Alexandria, still bored.

“That’s bullshit!” Aisha’s voice cracked.

“It is,” Mrs. Hebert said, steely. “And we’ll get the word out. People will see just how far the state will go to protect their corporate interests. But for now, Aisha, _please_. Step back. All of you,” she said, addressing the room. “Don’t give them the excuse.”

Aisha turned to look behind her, hoping they wouldn’t accept things just like this. There were some angry stares, some stubborn faces, but for the most part, they moved aside. As one peeled away, so did two more and then three, and on, until there was a path through the crowd to the stairs.

Aisha looked back at Mrs. Hebert, but she was already walking away with Alexandria just over her shoulder.

The path through wasn’t straight; some stood their ground, more stubborn than the rest. But they didn’t raise a hand to stop them, either. Just glared as Mrs. Hebert and Alexandria walked past.

As pointless and useless as Aisha.

Mrs. Hebert and Alexandria got to the base of the stairs and Mrs. Hebert turned one last time to shout, “We’re going to keep fighting!”

A meager few answered her with a cheer.

Alexandria put a hand on the woman’s back and led her out the bar.

Aisha didn’t watch them go.

\---

“It’s not her.”

Feldman turned to look at Alex. She was watching Annette Hebert with disinterest. “What was that?”

“It’s not her,” Alex said again.

Their suspect was led by Alex’s agents. Big fellows, but they were gentle as they put Mrs. Hebert into the government car. She didn’t look the least bit upset about it. Mrs. Hebert might as well have been entering a limo for how well she held herself.

“What makes you say that?” Feldman asked.

“I’m good at reading people. I can tell who they are at a glance and exactly when they’re lying. She isn’t the one we’re looking for.”

“Is that all the evidence you have?”

“Yes.”

Alexandria left it at that as if that was all that needed to be said.

Feldman sighed. “If you’re so sure, why take her in?”

“Paranoia,” Alexandria said.

Feldman raised an eyebrow.

“And,” added Alexandria, “you’ll need something to do while I’m gone.”

“Gone? Where are you going?”

Alexandria turned away, no longer concerned with Mrs. Hebert. Her phone was out and she started to tap a message. “Switzerland,” she said, not looking up. “Three people have been murdered.”

“What? Wait… don’t tell me...”

“The victims were all billionaires.”

Feldman groaned.

“Our little paranormal terrorist is starting to get serious.”

“Shit.”

“And it’s time we get serious, too.”

\---  
\---  
\---

The message came late in the night while Aisha was in bed. She hadn’t been asleep, just laying there in a half-dead daze. She picked up her phone more out of habit than any recognition. She had to stare at the screen for a good long minute before enough brain cells connected to actually make sense of the words.

_Aisha, this is Tammy’s parents. Tammy is in the hospital, she was shot, but the doctors say she’s okay now. We hope you’re okay, too. Get home and stay safe._

Aisha swallowed and pulled the phone close to her chest. Tears sprung from her eyes. Tears that she had been holding back all day. They spilled down her cheeks all at once, unending.

Tammy was alive. Aisha wiped at her face and sucked in a shuddering breath. Emotions flooded her, too much for her to even process. Joy, relief, those words didn’t even begin to describe it. She was just so fucking glad she’d be able to see her best friend again.

“Thank you,” she whispered. To Tammy’s parents. To the doctors. To God. To anyone who would listen. “Thank you.”

 

 

END OF PART ONE


	15. Chapter 15

**August 2**

It was easier to murder people when the girl didn't have to face them.

Easier to sit in a nice cafe. Air-conditioned, a relaxed tune playing, and a waiter coming to bring her more tea. She could smile and say thank you, and be just another satisfied customer, just a normal person.

It was fun to pretend.

Twenty stories above the cafe in a hotel bathroom, a man convulsed in a jacuzzi-sized bath. He clawed at his throat as if he could dig another hole to breathe through. The hole he was meant to use, his mouth, overflowed with insects.

The girl knew she ought to face him, if only to give her victim some reason as to why this was happening. But it was getting to the point where she just… couldn't.

Security was tightening. More guards, more cameras, more sensors. It was not impossible for her — she was confident in her power. The girl could, if she really needed to, crack any security. But it wasn’t a matter of “could” it was a matter of “how long” and “at what cost.”

She knew security would tighten after Switzerland. The news had gone crazy when the police found the bodies, and now the whole world was talking about her.

She hated it.

Not the strange anonymous fame, but how she earned it. She had killed people, yes, death was always a newsworthy event. But she had killed _three_ people and yet listen to the news and it was as if three million died.

As if those scum were worth more just because they had a few more zeroes in their bank account.

In the end, that's what it all came back to. She could not possibly count how many times she had heard the brainless talking heads ask "how does this affect the economy?"

As if that was all that mattered. As if these men who had nothing but money were all that held society together. As if that was all that society was.

The man in the jacuzzi went slack. Eyes rolling up in his skull, his head slipped under the water as the last of his strength left him.

The girl gave it a minute before she started to extract her bugs from the corpse. She cleaned the body as she finished her tea. She waved for the waiter, paid her bill, and walked out at a leisurely pace. It wouldn't take long for security to find the corpse and she didn't plan to stick around when they did.

When she came out into the street, she had to cover her eyes against the glare. Not from the sun, but the reflected glare off a silver skyscraper, somehow even brighter than its source. The iron towers surrounded her, some so new they sparkled in the light.

The girl had come to Riyadh, a city in the heart of the desert and home to the single richest family in the world: the Saudi Royal family. Good old fashioned monarchs with all that came with it. Assassinations, human rights violations, civilian massacres both in and outside their borders. They did as they pleased without consequence. Their word was law and the people they supposedly governed could only obey or die.

To even attempt to speak to them about the end of the world and what they could do about it… it would be a wasted effort.

No. The time for conversation had past.

The girl walked through the street, keeping her head down.

She wasn’t planning on toppling the government. She wasn’t sure she could even if she tried, at least not without giving herself completely away.

But she could make them _hurt_.

For now, that would have to be enough.

\---

Feldman sighed, folded his hands together and leaned forward across the metal table. A single light cast a heavy shadow over his face, and on any one else it would have been menacing.

"Look," he said, quiet, "I know this is bullshit. Frankly, I don't think you're guilty of anything. You're clean. Ish. As clean as someone like you can be. I'm not interested in chasing you."

In the shadow of the interrogation room, Mrs. Hebert stared at the federal agent. Her expression gave no hints as to her thoughts. The past few days locked up in a government blacksite had done nothing to loosen her tongue.

"I think you can guess who I'm really after." Feldman paused, hoping maybe that Mrs. Hebert would fill in the answer — give him some sign that she was even the least bit willing to cooperate.

She said nothing.

Feldman sighed again. "The killers. The Billionaire Butchers. Terrorists Ninety-nine. Whatever the news or the FBI is calling them.” Feldman always had to keep the plural in mind. Had to keep up the pretense that these were just ordinary criminals he was chasing. “ _They_ are who I'm after. Not you. So whatever you say to me, I guarantee it won't come back to bite you."

That got a smile out of the older woman. Mrs. Hebert sat back in her seat and crossed her arms, still refusing to speak.

Feldman frowned, a sour taste in his mouth. This is what Alex left him. Sure, he was the big shot, with a government blacksite and a few of Alex's trusted mooks at his disposal. It was the first time he ever felt like a real government agent. In charge, in control, with the power to decide people's lives.

But Feldman wasn't Alexandria. He couldn't just make people roll over and do whatever he wanted. He had to actually _try_.

And right now, all his efforts were being blocked by a brick wall. Annette Hebert was a stubborn woman, and the more time Feldman spent with her, the more he felt like a kid trying to lecture his own mom.

Feldman grit his teeth, but plowed on anyways. "The first victim, Philip Brabeck. You knew him. You have a history with him. All I want to know is if you know of any enemies he might have had."

Mrs. Hebert didn't answer.

She probably thought that whoever she named would end up in her seat.

She was right, of course.

But _God damn it_ , it wasn't like she was being _tortured_ or anything. Feldman was being as decent as he could about this. This was an international emergency. A fucking _human_ crisis. Someone with paranormal powers was killing whoever they pleased. He needed to do _whatever_ it took.

Feldman paused and pinched the bridge of his nose. Fuck, if he didn’t rein in that train of thought, he’d end up just like Alex. He sighed, groaned, and expelled air in a heave of emotion. He just wanted to find this paranormal person. That was all he wanted. Why did things have to be so complicated.

"This is all I need to know," he said, quiet. "Who would want to target Philip Brabeck?"

A laugh escaped from Mrs. Hebert, just a huff of air. It bothered Feldman more than he liked to admit, but at least she was paying attention to what he was saying.

"As soon as you tell me, I can let you go."

Another laugh, and Feldman was on the verge of shouting when he heard Mrs. Hebert speak for the first time in days.

"If you want to know who Philip's enemies are, why don't you ask him?" Mrs. Hebert’s smile twisted into a sneer. "Or is he too rich for you to detain like me?"

Feldman barely contained the excitement that the older woman had finally said _something_ , but he was a professional and he kept his cool as he replied, "Mr. Brabeck is unresponsive to questioning."

" _I'm_ unresponsive."

"After his attack, Mr. Brabeck became practically catatonic."

"He just needed to be _practically_ catatonic?" Mrs. Hebert looked away and folded her hands. She stared off into nothing, as if to say she could do better than "practically."

Feldman closed his eyes. He should have expected that. He had been struggling with this dead-end for so long, he had talked himself straight into a corner. Biting his lip, his thoughts went to Alexandria. _She_ got to actually go and chase their target while Feldman was stuck here banging his head against the wall.

He regretted ever asking who she really was. Maybe if he was still in the dark, she would’ve kept up the pretense that they were partners. As it was, Feldman was just another one of her minions.

Feldman gave one more glance at Mrs. Hebert, but she had committed to the catatonic act. He rolled his eyes, and got up. He exited the interrogation room and put his back against the closed door, letting the tension release. He had fucked up. He knew that. Her resolve had only strengthened, and any chance he might’ve gotten something on her was completely gone.

As his self-reflection worsed, a voice spoke up.

"Any lucky todayt?"

Feldman jumped a little and looked up. Across from him, leaning against the opposite wall of the hallway was a burly man. He had been one of the men to pick up Feldman and Alex from the private airport. The tall Asian man, pale enough to be unnatural, big enough for Feldman to never say so. He didn't have a name, just an initial.

"JL, I have a question," Feldman said, purposely not answering the man.

“What’s the question?”

If Feldman was going to be chasing after dead ends, he might as well be thorough. Mrs. Hebert had brought up a good point. “Is it possible we can get Philip Brabeck here?”

For a moment, JL only stared at him. Then, with a shrug, he said, "I'd have to clear it with the boss."

The _boss_. _Alex_.

Feldman grit his teeth, leaning forward. "Can you do it or not?"

JL eyed Feldman. Assessed his threat level. Feldman was sure he didn't even register on the scale.

Nonetheless, Feldman stepped up to the bigger man. “It’s not a complicated question.”

JL didn’t flinch. “Sure, it is.”

A flare of anger sparked and Feldman jabbed a finger into the big man’s chest. "Alexandria gave me command here," he hissed. "Or do you need to clear _that_ with her, too?"

JL didn't reply, not right away at least. First, he grabbed Feldman's finger, his meaty fist enveloping it entirely and then twisted it until a fire burned up into Feldman's arm.

Feldman yelped, but he couldn't jerk away, not without snapping his finger. His knees buckled, not quite collapsing, but lowering to keep up with the finger that threatened to snap off.

"Listen here," JL spoke, his voice level even as Feldman's skipped. "I don't take orders from you and I don't take orders from Alexandria.

"I'm a _volunteer,_ " growled the big man. "The moment things don't go the way I like, I walk away. I listen to the boss because I _choose_ to. And if you think you can push me around just cause she's taken a liking to you, you've got another thing coming."

Sweat sprouted along Feldman's forehead, the pain like an inferno trapped in his arm. "Ah… okay," he gasped. "I understand. Th… thank you for letting me know."

JL let him squirm for a second longer before letting him go. Feldman gasped and rubbed his sore finger. Miraculously, it was still connected to the rest of him.

"We can get him," JL said, matter of fact.

"Wh-what?"

"Philip Brabeck. If you want him, we can get him."

Feldman gaped at him, still clutching his aching hand. He wanted to scream expletives at the man, but after a moment, his mouth closed and when it opened again, a measure of composure had returned. "Thank you.” He paused, then added, “Please do so."

JL didn’t move and Feldman eyed him warily, ready to run if the man made another attack.

“You’re not special,” JL said suddenly.

Feldman blinked. “What?”

“You might be her favorite for now, but that won’t last.”

Feldman didn’t reply. There was so much to unpack there, he didn’t even know where to begin.

It wouldn’t have mattered. Without another word, JL walked away.

Feldman watched the man go. Once the big bastard was out of sight, Feldman let out a groan, and gave his hand another rub. He could already tell it was going to bother him all day. That, and what JL just said…

Feldman swallowed and headed the other way to the infirmary. Nothing could ever be easy, could it.

\---

Alexandria didn't sleep. One of the many perks to her power.

The last century of scientific research posited that sleep was part of the process in which the mind organized its thoughts. Shored up the crucial feelings and memories while disposing of the less critical ones. Dreams were only a byproduct of that process, purely accidental as the mind sorted itself out.

The last time Alexandria had dreamed was over 500 years ago. Her mind didn't need to organize, didn't need to highlight or discard anything. It simply kept _everything_. Without exception and in exact detail. She could remember anything at a moment’s notice.

But Alexandria didn't remember what dreams she had centuries ago. For all intents and purposes, those had been the thoughts of another woman.

Alexandria sat in a darkened room looking up at a wide screen. She was still in Zurich and she had hijacked a friend's personal home theater. It was half the size of a commercial theater with only a fraction of the seats. What would normally be the best seats in the house were the only ones here. Just enough to sit a family.

Alexandria sat in the center, alone. The time was 7:43 am — her internal clock unerringly accurate. It would have been a perfect time for Alexandria to catch up on the latest blockbusters, but tonight she was otherwise occupied. The film she watched was beyond anything conventional; To anyone else but her it would have been completely incomprehensible.

The silver screen was divided into thirty-two windows, each one playing a different scene sped up four times fast. It was camera footage from the surrounding area of each of the murders. CCTV from hotels, outdoor traffic cameras, personal home videos — anything that she could scrounge up, she had gathered here.

She didn’t blink as each image played out before her. The picture quality of some of the cameras were too low to be conclusive, but pieced together with a dozen other perspectives and Alexandria could construct a fitting simulation all in her head.

She recognized nearly everyone she saw. Facial recognition software had progressed quite a bit in the last few years, but nothing could compare to the breadth of her database or the speed at which she retrieved from it.

It was the people she _didn’t_ recognize that she kept the closest eye on. The people who had gone through a drastic enough change to throw her off or the ones who had simply stayed under their radar — private people in an increasingly public world.

Alexandria smiled as she latched onto a few faces. Unidentified individuals who had been in the vicinity when the murders happened. She still held onto the clue that Feldman had shared before, Philip Brabeck’s slip of the tongue when he said “she”, but at the same time, she knew she couldn’t put too much weight into it. Shape-shifting as a possible power still hadn’t been ruled out.

Alexandria pulled a tablet computer up and set the footage on the widescreen to play in real-time.

Nathan Amsel, Vikram Adani, Manual Henao. These were the three self-made billionaires who had died in Zurich. A blood diamond trader, a slaver, and a drug lord. They had all taken refuge in Switzerland and all three had died within five miles and twenty-four hours of one another. Alexandria’s investigation of the three crime scenes had produced little results. Their killer had been thorough and clean, and what was more, even Alexandria didn’t know what weapon had been used to kill them.

That didn’t mean coming here was useless, though. Whatever suspicions Alexandria had that her adversary might possess powers of teleportation or projection were gone. No, they had to be close to use their power. It made sense given the timing of the attacks. The pause between victims in America, the hiatus until Europe, and then the cluster of murders almost at once in Zurich… it spoke of travel time and of someone capitalizing on an opportunity they were not sure they would have again.

Alexandria settled in her seat, letting the footage play out. It wasn’t enough for her to just pick out names and faces, she wanted to see how they _moved_. There were endless details she could glean from how one walked or where they stopped or what direction they looked. She wondered if her killer would be the nervous jittery sort, peeking over their shoulder or if they would be calm and collected, unphased even as they killed.

She was so sure she’d figure out their identity that when one camera flickered to black, Alexandria almost didn’t think anything of it.

It was when the second went dark and back again that Alexandria realized something was wrong.

An instant later and a connection was made.

Back in America, Alexandria had checked what footage she could. In terms of usefulness, there wasn’t much. Philip Brabeck and Fredrik Lindh’s abductions had happened off-camera with little to no surveillance beforehand. Those two had been fruitless, but Dan Hutchen’s ordeal, while not recorded directly, still had plenty of cameras surrounding it.

And those cameras had gone dark, too.

The black-out wasn’t happening at random. The more Alexandria saw, the more she understood. The black-out was moving forward in half-second clips, cutting out a path of darkness.

There was still some trick that Alexandria didn’t quite understand yet, though. She focused her attention on the highest quality camera on the way. She didn’t need to put it in slow-motion, she saw every frame she needed to.

The camera went dark.

In the one frame that the image was clear, Alexandria could make out a fuzzy wing, patterned and dark, moving to cover the camera’s lens. The wing of a moth.

Alexandria smiled. _Bugs_. The little paranormal terrorist was controlling _bugs_.

Her smile grew. Alexandria couldn’t help but be impressed.

Her appreciation was cut short by her phone. It buzzed with a message, and when Alexandria saw it, her heartbeat quickened.

_Saudi Prince murdered in Riyadh. Billionaire. MO similar to Zurich. One hour ago._

One hour ago.

Alexandria turned for the door and broke into a run.

Only one hour. The trail was fresh. Thousands of miles away, but still _fresh_.

Alexandria sprinted at full speed, already making calls to arrange a flight. For the first time in centuries, life was exciting again.


	16. Chapter 16

The television was the only light in the darkened room. Plastic-smiling figures lit the screen, the men driving sleek cars through lush forests and the women frowning and turning their heads at turd-like stains on plates. They weren't human. No human glowed the way they did. No, they were _constructed_. Placed under searing production lights, dressed up like dolls, their faces made up, cleaned of any imperfections. They shone like beacons on the television screen and their light painted an ethereal blue-white glow on crumpled bags, greasy plastic containers, and empty beer cans.

Bearing the brunt of the harsh light, almost buried in the folds of an oversized leather chair, was a man. He wore only boxers and a stained undershirt that stretched at the base where his beer belly spilled out. He reeked of the cause. He lay more than sat in the large chair, head lolling to the side. In the pale glow, he almost looked dead, but Aisha knew better.

For the fourth night in a row, Aisha's dad had fallen asleep in front of the television. Aisha could see where the leather stuck to his skin.

He wasn't _completely_ glued to the chair. Aisha had seen him get up occasionally to get food or drink, and thankfully, to go to the bathroom.

Other than that, the man did nothing else.

He didn't go out, didn't talk, didn't even _look_ at Aisha most days.

All he did, day in and day out was watch television and drink beer. Sometimes Aisha would hear him grumble, but the words were incoherent, just noises -- the sort a dog would make in its sleep. The only sound that Aisha could make out was the name, "Kronon."

The company he worked for. _Had_ worked for. Thirty years as a security guard. Thirty years and not one vacation, not one day late to the office. He took a sick day once, but changed his mind mid-way and tried to go in anyways. Thirty years and without even a day's notice he was told to get his stuff and get out.

The television flashed with a logo as the commercial break ended. On screen, a pair of glowing figures appeared. They sat behind a desk and shuffled papers self-importantly in front of them. Their hair had been done, their faces plastered with white powder, somehow they seemed even more unreal than the commercials. They started to talk, but the television was muted. It didn't matter though, the headline that scrolled at the bottom said all that needed to be said:

_CORPORATE BAILOUT BUOYS PLUMMETING STOCK PRICES, BUT UNEMPLOYMENT STILL AT RECORD HIGH_

Aisha stared at the screen for a while. There wasn't closed captioning, but she wasn't interested in the words any more. What she wanted to see was the news casters. How well put together they were. How composed they had gotten. They talked about unemployment, about people without jobs, without homes, and their expressions were grave and they gave little pouts and frowns, but they weren't _afraid_. They knew _they_ were okay.

Aisha reached over her dad, plucked the remote up off his belly and turned the television off. She didn't need it to tell her what she already knew.

Aisha needed to get out of here. Out of this pit. She got her shoes on and went out.

It was morning in the city, the sun still rising. Aisha had almost forgotten with how dark her dad's apartment was, but for the rest of New York, the day was just beginning.

Aisha headed down the street and went down into the subway. At the turnstiles, she spotted a pair of boys hopping over. One was clumsy getting over the bar, his foot getting snagged. He had to lean on his friend to extract himself from the turnstile.

Amateurs. If you couldn't jump the bar, you needed to duck it. Aisha would've demonstrated if she hadn't taken dad's monthly card from before things went to shit. She swiped through and waited for the train.

The air underground was stiff and at least ten degrees hotter than above, but that was normal. That was Aisha's every day. The norm. And yet there was something strange. Something off.

A stir in the air signaled the coming train, then a single headlight. The train tore into the station, wind billowing from it. It was almost refreshing, but the wind was still steaming hot. Once enough of the train was in the station, it came to a screeching stop almost all at once. Aisha didn't even wince at the sound. If anything, the screech today was a little quieter than usual. She got on the train, not knowing why she felt so odd.

It was only when Aisha sat down on the bench that she realized what was wrong.

This was supposed to be rush hour.

Aisha sat a little straighter and looked over the train car. It was only a quarter full, almost all the seats open.

It should've been packed with business people in suits, clerks in shirts and jeans, and guards in uniform. All the people who were supposed to be taking the train to go to work… and only a paltry few had come to represent them. There wasn't any pride in the ones who remained, either. They didn't seem grateful that they had managed to hold onto their job, if anything they seemed afraid that today might be their last.

Aisha ground her teeth together and looked down at her feet. Knowing why things had felt so odd didn't make the feeling go away. If anything, it had gotten worse.

The train came to Aisha's stop and she got off, her stomach turning. As she climbed the stairs out of the station still feeling sick, she heard a roar. A familiar sound, the auditory stampede of a crowd chanting. It was muddled by the distance0, but it was loud. Angry.

At first Aisha wasn't even sure it was real. Maybe it was a hallucination. Or a flashback. Was this what PTSD was?

But as she climbed the stairs and came above ground, she knew what she was hearing was real.

It was a protest. Though not as large as… the one before. Aisha could see the end of this one.

They had filled a street, but they weren't marching anywhere. They had planted themselves firmly in the middle of the road. Tents were set up and sleeping bags laid out on the asphalt. Some didn't even have that much, just blue tarps stretched between poles.

It might've been just a homeless commune, but these people had a mission. They were on their feet, gathered at the base of a building. Aisha didn't even know what building, just that it was a skyscraper, another financial center with all the shine and polish that money could buy. The people stood against the ivory tower, holding up signs and waving flags.

" _THEY GOT BAILED OUT! WE GOT SOLD OUT!_ " they chanted, " _THEY GOT BAILED OUT! WE GOT SOLD OUT!_ "

Catchy.

But there couldn't have been more than two-hundred of them.

Aisha looked away, scowling. She walked in the other direction, going the long way around.

That was their plan to everything wasn't it? Just get in the way and hope someone noticed. As if you could _annoy_ someone else into fixing things.

Stupid. Aisha sucked in her teeth and walked faster. It was just so stupid.

Dark thoughts swirling in her head, Aisha didn't notice much. The last leg of her trip went by without recognition until finally she was at her destination. She walked into a building, the doors sliding open before her. It was only when the cool air-conditioned air blasted her that she woke from her stupor.

Aisha had come to a hospital, probably the nicest hospital she had ever been in. The lights were a pure white and the walls were painted a soothing teal. A receptionist, white and well-dressed, sat at a modern desk, almost half-podium. She didn't look up as Aisha walked to the desk.

"Hi," Aisha said.

The receptionist was on a computer under the lip of the desk. She glanced Aisha's way, then back down at the computer. "Yes, can I help you?" she asked, with the barest of effort.

Fucking bitch. Aisha knew she wasn't hospital's usual clientele — too young and too dark. She tried not to let it get to her. Aisha put on a smile. "I'm here to visit a friend."

"Mmhmm. One moment." The receptionist reached into a drawer, and pulled up a little web camera. She set it down on the lip of the desk and pointed it in Aisha's direction. "Stand still."

Aisha didn't have a choice. She tried not to scowl.

"Thank you," the receptionist said, putting away the camera.

"So… can I go see my friend now?"

"In a moment. I need your name and ID first."

Aisha bit the inside of her cheek and pulled out the only ID she had. A learner's permit she had gotten on a whim from what felt like ages ago. She hoped that was enough. "Aisha Laborn."

"Thank you." The receptionist took the permit, scanned it and pressed a button on a small machine. After a few long seconds, a slip of paper was printed out. The receptionist gave back the permit and held out the slip for Aisha. "This is your visitor's pass, peel the side off and put it on where people can see."

It was a sticker badge. Aisha took it and stuck it on her chest. "There, I'm marked. Can I see my friend now?"

The receptionist's eyes flicked up at Aisha, like a dog who had sniffed something foul. Aisha could see the question playing out in the woman's head. Was it worth it to call security for a little bit of sass?

Aisha swallowed. She couldn't risk not seeing Tammy. Not something for this stupid.

"Sorry," Aisha said, the word coming out strained. She forced a smile on. "Just a little stressed."

The receptionist rolled her eyes and that was that. "What's your friend's name?"

Aisha let out a sigh. "Tammy Lau."

The receptionist went back to refusing to look at Aisha as she said, "Third floor."

"Okay and uh... what room?"

"Ask the desk at the third floor."

"Oh. Okay." Aisha put the smile on again. "Thanks."

The receptionist didn't reply, already putting Aisha out of her mind.

Whatever. That suited Aisha just fine. She headed to the elevator and went up to the third floor.

She was dreading having to go through another round of passive-aggressive desk talk, but fortunately the third-floor nurses didn't care enough to give her a hard time. They gave her Tammy's room number with little trouble.

Aisha headed down the hallway, trying to push back on the feeling that she didn't belong. The floor was polished to a mirror sheen and the air had the scent of disinfectant. She was here to visit her friend, she had gotten her picture taken and gotten her pass, she had checked in with the nurses. Aisha had done everything exactly as she should've and she had every right to be here.

And yet she couldn't help but shake the feeling she didn't belong. As if one wrong step would see her tossed out into the street or worse, behind bars.

The feeling hung over her shoulder all the way to Tammy's room. Out in the hallway, she spotted Tammy's dad talking on the phone. He wasn't saying much, but he was preoccupied enough that Aisha was within arms reach before he noticed her.

"Hey, Mr. Lau," Aisha whispered.

He smiled at her, but didn't reply, pointing to the phone.

Aisha nodded in understanding. It must've been important.

He waved Aisha along, pointing to one of the rooms. Tammy's.

Aisha didn't need to be told twice. She went in, quiet in case Tammy was asleep.

She wasn't, but it was a near thing. Tammy was laid up in the hospital bed, tubes running from her. Her eyelids drooped as if she had only just woken and she was as pale as snow. It seemed like it took ages for Tammy to look Aisha’s way, but when she finally did, the crook of her lips pulled into a small smile.

“Aisha,” Tammy said, quiet, “You’re okay.” 

Aisha choked out a laugh and went to her friend’s side. “What are you talking about? Of course, I’m okay.”

“I saw you hit your head…”

Aisha touched her forehead, she had completely forgotten about the hit she had taken at the protest. It had been nothing, just a cut and bruise, but of course that was what Tammy remembered.

Aisha smiled. “Yeah, no big deal.” She reached over and took Tammy’s hand. “We’re tough, aren’t we?”

Tammy’s smile widened a fraction. “Total badasses.”

Another laugh came out of Aisha, it was barely more than a chuckle, between breaths and half-formed, but it was a laugh. Nevermind the chaos outside or the man half-dead at home or the fact that Tammy had a hole in her stomach. For a brief moment, Aisha could laugh. Just a girl with her friend.

\---

The private jet touched down on the tarmac without a hitch. It glided along the runway as smooth as a skater on the rink. The pilot was an experienced flier, twenty years under his belt, many of them over warzones. The trips he flew now were easy in comparison, but he never let that get to his head. He had his pride as a pilot to consider and he knew that this was a job that only the very best got.

Because Alexandria only used the best.

She stepped down from the jet, shielding her eyes from the glaring sun. In the distance was the city of Riyadh, a modern achievement in the middle of a desert, though the heat rising from the asphalt made the skyline seem as though it was drowning.

She smiled at the sight of it. Finally, she had caught up.

A car was waiting for her on the tarmac. The driver stood beside the door, serious and professional. He didn’t know about Alexandria and neither did the pilot for that matter, but the people who paid them did, and that was enough for her purposes.

Alexandria headed down to the car, barely able to contain herself.

The time was 3:06PM.

How long, Alexandria wondered, would her prey last?


	17. Chapter 17

The palace was one of dozens in the city. The design of this one drew influence from both ancient Greek temples as well as 14th century French churches. The front was lined with marble pillars, but behind them, the windows were stained glass with images of various mythological figures. A child's dreamlike design, demanding whatever caught their fancy to be included in the final product. It put a smile to Alexandria's lips as she approached. A pair of guards bent their heads ever so slightly as they pulled the front doors open for her.

The interior was just as misplaced: polished marble floors, low-hanging chandeliers, and walls with flowery designs painted in subdued colors. A look that had been lifted straight out of Versailles. Alexandria let out a minuscule laugh, but kept walking on.

Someone hurried to intercept her, a pencil-pushing bureaucrat. He nearly had to run to keep up with her long strides and he babbled as he did. He started off talking of schedules and meeting times before remembering himself and launching into a spiel of how welcomed Alexandria was. Useless prattle occupying her memory; it'd be with her forever now.

She turned to look at the bureaucrat, and his voice trailed off under her gaze.

"I'm going to see the king," she said.

The bureaucrat squirmed. "Ah, well, we've anticipated your arrival, and we have accommodations prepared and…"

"He should be expecting me." Alexandria raised an eyebrow. "Is he not?"

"Of course, of course, he's well aware of your arrival." The bureaucrat swallowed. "But he's also locked himself in his study, ma’am. He is beside himself with grief, he made explicit instructions not to be disturbed under any circumstances."

"Fool," Alexandria spat the word out and quickened her step. She knew exactly where to go. She had memorized the layout of this palace long ago.

Now the bureaucrat really did have to jog to keep up. He cried out for her to wait, but no more than that. He didn't have the authority to actually stop her, he only had to give the appearance that he tried.

The king's study was guarded by a pair of soldiers. They stiffened at the sight of Alexandria, their hands went to their guns, though they didn't raise them. Behind their eyes, Alexandria could see alarm and confusion warring inside them. They knew she didn't belong, and yet she had gotten here somehow. She had to be important, but she was on a direct path to their king.

In the end, orders won out over decorum. One guard stepped forward, one hand held out, the other still on the handle of his gun.

"Stop. Now," he said in halting English.

Alexandria considered snapping his hand, but thought better of it. She stopped and forced a smile on, "I'm here to see the king."

"The king is not to be disturbed," the guard barked.

Behind Alexandria, the bureaucrat fidgeted. “My apologies, I tried to tell her. She _is_ a royal guest, but…” he trailed off, unsure as to what Alexandria even was. He only knew that she was important.

Alexandria's smile tightened, but there was nothing pleasant about it. "It's very urgent."

"King is _not_ " — the guard waved his hand emphatically — "to be disturbed!"

Alexandria rolled her eyes. The poor soldier was getting frustrated speaking English and it showed. She switched to Arabic. "I need to see the king _now_ "

The guard blinked. Alexandria had no trace of an accent. Her words were perfectly formed, almost definitive and yet the poor soldier acted as though she had spoken Cantonese.

Alexandria didn't have the patience for him to recognize his own language. " _Idiot_ ,” she hissed, “There's an _assassin_ on the loose and you left the king _alone_? Open the door now before he ends up like his son."

That got their attention. The two guards shared an uncertain look.

Alexandria supposed she ought to feel bad for them. If the king was dead, it'd be their heads next and all they had done was follow his orders.

The guard closest to the door must have had the same thought because he broke the silence by knocking on the door. "Your majesty? Are you well?"

There was no response and he knocked for a second time. Still nothing. The guard gave a wide-eyed look to his compatriot.

The two of them were just about ready to kick the door down when finally, it pulled open.

The king of Saudi Arabia stood in the doorway, dressed in a bathrobe as plush and white as a bunny's tail. It was marked only by a golden weave of the king's initials at the chest. Alexandria was pretty sure it was real gold. As nice as the bathrobe was (and it really was, Alexandria made a note to get her own when she had the chance) the king was a mess.

Old age had not treated Shuaib bin Farhan Al Saud well. He was hook-nosed, vaguely overweight and had cheeks that drooped dreadfully. His natural looks were not helped by bloodshot eyes, a hunchback posture and a beard that had gone feral.

"Alexandria," he rasped, sounding as though he had been drinking sand. "You're here. Please. Come in."

The guards looked at Alexandria, flinched and skirted out of the way, heads bowed.

It was funny, but Alexandria held back the laugh and even the smile. Shuaib held the door open for her and she entered the king's private study, suitably grave.

"I am not to be disturbed," Shuaib said to his guards.

"Of course, your maj--"

He closed the door. Without so much as glancing at Alexandria he shuffled over to his desk. There, a bottle of brandy was waiting for him. He didn't bother asking Alexandria if she wanted any. He picked the bottle up, poured out half a glass and drank it in one go. He was pouring out another when finally he spoke, "My son is dead."

Alexandria watched him, saying nothing.

"My fourth son, but still _my_ son." Shuaib lowered himself into his chair. He moved slowly, as if any sudden movement would send him toppling. "Assassinated in his own hotel."

Alexandria waited for him to go on because she knew he would.

"I am not unfamiliar with such things. It is… part of this life. You of all people understand. But the way he died…" He covered his eyes and shook his head, "Unspeakable."

The silence hung there for a long while. Enough time to imagine the worst.

" _How_?" Shuaib looked up at Alexandria, his eyes wet with tears. " _Who_? Was it this Terror 99? Is that what they are called? How did they get to my son?"

His head went into his hands. “He should have been safe! My son, my boy… he was the clever one. This Terror 99, he warned me of them. Told me to be careful.” He shook his head again. “I did not listen. He should have been safe. Out of all my sons, he had the tightest security. He had been the most careful. How did they get to him? How? _How_?”

Alexandria said nothing. She stood perfectly still.

But her silence finally drew his attention. He pulled his head up and raised a trembling finger at Alexandria. "This Terror 99. They came from America did they not? These are _your_ killers.” His eyes were wild as his voice grew in volume. “Is that what this is? Have you finally decided to come for me? Even after all I’ve done for you, you try to overthrow my family!"

Shuaib was on his feet, his drink spilled to the floor, he was shaking with rage. “I will not allow it! I will not be your puppet! I will not let you destroy my legacy! Do you hear me?! I will _not_!”

Alexandria didn't react. Though she would have liked to laugh.

The king looked like a wrinkled baby. His one hand balled into a tiny fist, his lip quivering, and all of him as red as a berry. Oh, poor Shuaib, his son was dead. He grieved the way only a father could... never mind that even as they spoke, the hotel staff and the prince's ex-guards were being rounded up by the king's men. Dozens, maybe even a hundred unfortunate souls who had the bad luck of simply being _near_ the prince’s demise. They would be tortured for answers, and then when they gave none, they would be executed. How many sons would die because the king’s had?

Alexandria’s stare was unshakeable. Despite what he said, Shuaib could not possibly believe Alexandria was trying to overthrow him. After all, if that’s what she wanted to happen, it would have already.

The old man huffed and puffed as the last of his shouts faded. The color of his face was returning to its usual shade, his temper tantrum having run its course. He let out a sigh and folded back into his seat, a new set of wrinkles lining his face.

Poor Shuaib, he craved vengeance, but he would not get it. Not with his usual means, not with all the torture and murder in the world. Even Shuaib, dim as he was, realized it. His son had been murdered by impossible means and now he needed impossible solutions.

"Please," he croaked, all the energy in him suddenly spent. "Help me find my son's killer."

Alexandria hid her smile well. “Shuaib, my dear friend. Of course, I’ll help.”

\---

The last time Feldman had seen Phillip Brabeck, the former billionaire had been at the end of his rope. Half-catatonic, his assets seized and criminal charges looming over his head. For a week, Phillip Brabeck had been all the world was talking about. The billionaire buffoon caught in the biggest tax fraud case the world had ever seen.

Now, sitting across from Feldman in the cold interrogation room, Brabeck was no one. Penniless, friendless, so pale as to be transparent. A ghost of a person. The only thing he had was the fame that came with being the "beginning."

Though the details of that were in contention. On air with the talking heads, out on the streets and in the annals of the internet, people argued.

Had Terror 99 started with him? Forced him to expose himself? Or had his reveal — and the subsequent scandals that followed — been what inspired T99 to take action?

On one end, he was the victim. On the other, he was the cause — not only for the murders, but for the maimed economy. Millions out of a job, entire families uncertain if they'd make it through the month or if they'd lose their homes. Was Phillip Brabeck the reason why?

But that wasn't what Feldman wanted to ask. He already knew the answer.

Feldman pulled out a tape recorder and Brabeck flinched at the sight of it, as if it were a gun. Feldman paused and Brabeck relaxed an inch, but only by an inch. Carefully, so as not to trip the man's alarms again, Feldman set the recorder down on the table.

Brabeck sat rigid, but his eyes never settled on anything for more than a second, constantly trying to catch something just out of sight.

Feldman cleared his throat, and Brabeck gave him a quick glance before looking away again.

"Mr. Brabeck," Feldman said, still going at it slow, "How are you?"

Brabeck didn't reply. He didn't have to, just looking at him was answer enough.

Feldman forced a smile on anyways. "I know this has been a difficult time for you. I can't even begin to imagine."

Nothing.

"I don't know if you remember, but we've actually met before. Very briefly. It was when you came down to the station for the first time." It was an arrest, but "came down to the station" sounded nicer. Feldman's smile stayed on. "I was one of the investigators, but I never really got the chance to talk with you. Office politics, you understand, right?"

Corner to corner, Brabeck's eyes darted, his every breath coming in sharp.

"But now that I have you here, I think maybe we can help each other."

Still no response. Feldman had expected as much, but it was time he stopped playing nice. He reached over to the tape recorder and hit play.

A voice came on from the tape. Hoarse, half-whispered. " _It can't be..._ " It was Brabeck.

" _Oh, it is,_ " countered another voice from the tape. Gruff and with authority, it was the FBI investigator who had commandeered Brabeck's case. " _Your accountant turned himself in when he realized what you did. He was very eager to tell us as much as he could. A warrant for tax evasion and fraud will do that to a man._ "

A pause.

And then, almost too quiet to hear even with the volume dialed all the way, " _She played me. She—_ "

Metal on concrete screeched and banged.

Feldman hit the stop button.

The screech hadn't come from the recording, but from the real-life Phillip Brabeck. He had jumped out of his chair with enough force to knock it over. He was on his feet, and his eyes had finally settled on something. They were fixed on Feldman, wide with horror.

"No, no, no," Brabeck spoke at last, though his voice cracked at every syllable, "I didn't say it. I didn't mean to."

"Who is _she_?"

"No, please, no," cried the man. He backed up against the wall, cradling his head in his hands. "I didn't mean to say it."

"But you _did_."

"No!" Brabeck turned and shouted up at the ceiling. "Don't listen to him! I won't say a word, I swear!"

"Who are you talking to?"

"Shut up!" Brabeck screamed. He turned again, putting his head into the corner of the room as if he could shut everything else out. "I won't give you anything."

Brabeck curled up into a ball and stuffed himself into the corner, making himself as small and insignificant as possible. He was muttering things under his breath, but none of it made sense, not even to Feldman.

Another failure. Feldman had pushed too hard, too soon. Was this all he could accomplish on his own? He grit his teeth, this couldn't be the end of the line. If this was already too much, then _fuck it_. It wouldn't make a difference if he just kept pushing.

Feldman got up and walked around the table, closing the distance to the fetal former billionaire. He leaned on the wall, just over Brabeck's shoulder.

"You already have, Brabeck. You've told me plenty just with how you're acting. _She_ played you. Singular. One woman who tricked you, manipulated you. And now she's holding you hostage. She's got you scared somehow — even though you're in a locked room, behind a dozen concrete walls with a platoon of men with guns. Which suggests either insanity on your part or" — Feldman leaned forward — "there's something truly terrifying about this woman."

Brabeck flinched, pulling away, but Feldman refused to stop.

"You're not crazy, Brabeck. You're as rational as they come. You saw something that shouldn't have been possible, and now you know that any moment, you could be dead. But here's the thing" — Feldman shrugged — "you're not. Even after everything you've inadvertently told me, you are still alive."

Brabeck didn't move. He was still curled up, but the muttering had stopped.

"Maybe she can't get to you. Maybe she's busy elsewhere. You heard about Switzerland, right? Everyone is saying this was an attack by T99 or whatever, but we know the truth, right? It was _her_.

"She crossed the Atlantic Ocean and left you behind, confident that you wouldn't say a word." Feldman paused, as if he had to think about it. "But you did. You didn't mean to, of course, but you did. And you're alive. Maybe a little sleep-deprived, but as far as I can tell, alive."

Feldman leaned down, until he was just over Brabeck's head and he whispered, "This woman — whoever she is — can't hear us. Europe is thousands and thousands of miles away. Even if this woman did have special… powers, she's not a god. She has limits."

Brabeck was silent and Feldman knew he had captured the man's attention, but the truth was, Feldman was only guessing now. It was _likely_ the woman didn’t have a continent-spanning range, it was _likely_ she would never find out if Brabeck said anything. _Likely_ , but if Feldman was wrong, Brabeck would be dead.

To his surprise, Feldman found he didn’t care much. Brabeck was no saint and if he did end up dead, well, that’d be a very useful data point to have. Maybe Feldman would even get to see the power in action himself.

After a pause almost long enough to be an issue, Feldman went on, "Help us find those limits, Brabeck. Tell us who she is, what she can do and I promise you, we _will_ find this woman. We will stop her. And you'll finally have a decent night’s sleep again."

A moment passed, Brabeck's head still buried between his arms.

Another moment, almost an eternity.

And then just as Feldman was about to give up and walk away, Brabeck spoke, quiet at first, but growing louder, "Not… not a woman…"

Feldman held his breath. "What do you mean?" he asked.

Brabeck raised his head, his eyes teary. He swallowed and then swallowed some more, fighting to speak the words. "She was…” He hesitated, eyes twitching, expecting death at any moment.

But it didn’t come.

He swallowed once more and croaked out at last, “She was just a girl.”

He ducked his head, but nothing happened.

Another second ticked by, Feldman tense on his toes. Brabeck was still alive.

Now, every breath the former billionaire took added to his courage. And after a hundred uninterrupted heartbeats, he went on. His voice was muffled and quivering, but everything he saw and heard and _experienced_ , he shared.

And finally Feldman began to understand his target.


End file.
